


when the future starts so slow

by mcreary



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, fluff and a little bit of angst, headcanons galore, jkr didn't provide enough info on Quidditch-related matters, men are stupid and make stupid decisions, no homophobia in MY Quidditch, so I'm playing fast and loose with canon, some allusions to past trauma aka the Second Wizarding War, sports sports sports, what's emotional vulnerability to a non-believer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 17:43:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 51,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20568335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcreary/pseuds/mcreary
Summary: When he received a letter inviting him to try out for England's National Quidditch team, Oliver had no idea that accepting the invitation would force him to confront his feelings for Marcus Flint, something that he would much rather forget about - after all, there is Quidditch to be played.





	1. as if one of our longshots paid off

**Author's Note:**

> let me preface this with the admission that I originally planned for this fic to be a one-shot of about 10k words max. then I uhhh. lost control somewhat. I split it into 4 chapters and an epilogue because I know that there are a lot of people out there who enjoy reading longer texts in a chaptered structure.
> 
> while this is very much a flintwood story, it’s also a love letter to Quidditch and one of my favourite characters growing up (though I wouldn’t go as far as to call this a character study).
> 
> there’s an “official” playlist for this fic if you’re into that (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4V8DH5SgXoqnw1OLbvyvhC)
> 
> also: I blame my friend R for this entire thing. when I told her that I was strongly considering writing actual hp fanfic in 2019, she told me to ‘just write it lol’. love u R
> 
> the title of the fic is taken from the song "Future Starts Slow" by The Kills
> 
> the title of the first chapter is taken from the song "Longshot" by Catfish and the Bottlemen

The owl arrived during the twilight hours of the morning, as he was sitting at his kitchen counter, warm cup of breakfast tea in hand. It wasn’t one he recognized, though he immediately identified it as an eagle owl, the wingspan was huge - at least 60 inches. The second it landed on his window perch, it started scratching at the glass in a perfect imitation of human impatience. 

Oliver set down his cup and made his way over to let the animal in, but it showed no desire at all to enter his flat. Instead, it stared at him with big, imperious amber eyes and wiggled one of its claws at him. 

His gaze was instantly drawn to the roll of official-looking parchment tied to it, and he hurried to free the owl of its load. When he held the letter safely in hand, it turned around and, with a parting cry, spread its wings to return to the skies. 

He shook his head in wonder but decided to leave the window open. It promised to be another mild day, no harm in letting some fresh air in as he was getting ready.

Sitting back down, he unrolled the parchment, lifted the rim of his teacup to his lips and began reading the message…

Only to nearly choke on his next swallow. The letter was official, alright. What he’d taken for a simple invitation (maybe to another wedding of one of his ministry-employed friends or an inquiry for an interview) was, in fact, a request. A request by none other than Gareth Vosper, captain of England’s National Quidditch team who wanted Oliver to try out for the Keeper position. 

He blinked, staring at the words spelt out in normal black ink, trying to find fault in the inoffensive, easy-to-decipher handwriting. It wasn’t that he thought it had to be a joke, that he didn’t deserve this, because of course, he did - this was everything he’d worked towards and more - but. 

Oliver checked, then double-checked the address, even though the name  _ Oliver Wood _ \- his name - spelt out in the first line in straight, pragmatic lettering left little doubt about who the recipient was. 

Gareth hadn’t said anything about this the last time they met, hadn’t made even the smallest insinuation when they went out for drinks after Puddlemere United sent the Tutshill Tornados packing with a score of 240 - 50 in their most recent match-up. 

This had only taken place a couple of months ago, in May, and Oliver wondered when Gareth and the Committee had come to their decision. 

Eventually, he noticed that a tiny post-scriptum had been added after the formal body of the text, a short line that didn’t fit with the overall neatness of it all, that broke convention in the same way Gareth’s head of bright green hair did in a sea of blondes and brunettes, like he just couldn’t bear to stick to regulations for even one letter. 

_ Hey, Wood, don’t let this get to your pretty little head, alright? - G _

A grin was tugging at his lips, and since his team captain, Wallace, wasn’t here to call him smug, he let it settle, let himself revel in the moment. Payoff.

Oliver had been a staple of the team for the last couple of years, almost exactly since the season when they had pulled him up from reserves. He had worked his arse off for this, had weathered losses and injuries and prissy teammates with egos bigger than their impact on the pitch (no, he wasn’t bitter about Paisley anymore, he got over that ages ago, although he still struggled with seniority as a concept). He’d put everything but his Quidditch career on hold, including personal relationships - friendship and romance alike. 

The war had been an exception, of course, but after that whole ordeal was over, he’d gone right back to training, to putting himself through the paces harder than ever. There had been very little time for rest or for personal matters. Oliver could count on one hand the events he’d prioritised over Quidditch - Fred’s funeral, George and Angelina’s wedding, Harry’s wedding to Ginny Weasley, Katie and Alicia’s wedding last year in June, his father’s funeral. 

High points of his career included a League win in the 1999 season and a European League title in the same year. All in all, he thought, it had been worth it. And now...now he had the chance to truly make it on the international stage. The next World Cup was set for 2002, two years and a week from today. Enough opportunities to prove that this invitation was rightfully his, not that he intended to require more than one. 

Swallowing the dregs of his tea, he got up and stretched, placed the cup in the sink. A glance at the clock his mother had gifted him when he moved out told him that there was still ample time left for a morning run before he had to be at practice. So he slipped on his running shoes, grabbed his wand from the mantle and sealed the door to his flat behind him with a well-practised Locking Charm. 

* * *

His usual route led him along the River Piddle, a scenic stretch of the country just outside of Warnham. Occasionally, he ran past a Muggle out on their morning jog, but no one ever bothered him, an unspoken mutual understanding passing between people during a peaceful early workout.

It was a habit he’d picked up post-Hogwarts, something he used to only do from time to time when he was younger and accompanied his mother on her morning runs. 

Not a lot of people knew that Oliver was actually a half-blood. His father, Aidan Wood, an accomplished researcher in the field of Herbology, had fallen for a professional ballet dancer when they met during one of his visits to the Royal Botanical Gardens.

After the horrific disaster that had been the First Wizarding War, his father’s paranoia had led him to instruct his son to keep quiet about his blood status, and apart from Oliver’s closest friends, only a select few other individuals were aware of the truth. While it had bothered Oliver immensely at first, he’d eventually gotten used to it, to the deceptive simplicity of just letting people assume.

Although his father had always been quietly supportive of his son’s passion for Quidditch, it was his mother that had nurtured his growing competitive spirit, his ambition, his optimistic winner’s mentality. 

She’d supported his career from his very first flight on a tiny toy broomstick to his first real game for Puddlemere when he’d gotten promoted to the main team, and she still showed up to matches when it was possible to fit into her schedule. 

Noreen Wood had seen to it that her son knew everything there was to know about balance, body control, strength and endurance, had taught him how to exercise to keep himself fit. 

While Oliver was certain that she’d been a bit disappointed in his obvious disinterest where Muggle sports were concerned, she’d done her best never to let that show, and instead had put a lot of energy towards learning as much about flying and Quidditch as possible. 

Many an evening’s dinner had been spent answering her questions, and she’d even asked Oliver to borrow his well-loved copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ at one point. It had been her that insisted on escorting him to Quality Quidditch Supplies, where he bought his very first broom (a Cleansweep Six which had served him well for all seven of his Hogwarts school years), and again when his parents had surprised him with a brand new Firebolt after graduation. “So you can sweep away the competition,” she had joked, then hugged him fiercely. 

The three of them had also gone to see the infamous Quidditch World Cup finals of ‘94 together, another gift from his parents, this one for making Puddlemere’s reserves. 

Oliver resolved to call her as soon as he made it home from practice. 

She had retired from doing stage productions and switched to teaching the younger generations a couple years ago, a job Oliver considered her uniquely suited for. 

Since his father’s death, she lived mostly by herself in the old family house, with only the plants and creatures to keep her company, and he was aware she’d been thinking of moving into a flat closer to him, into an area with a bigger Muggle population. He knew that it wasn’t just the loneliness that got to her, but also the latent magic of the place she had no control over. 

His father’s old possessions weren’t exactly of the malicious kind; however, they displayed peculiar behaviour that spoke of the individual personalities they’d developed over the years, as magical objects were wont to do. His father’s oldest pair of shears, for example, refused to work on Tuesdays, and straight-up pretended to be broken if you wore the wrong pair of gloves. 

He visited her as often as possible, and had promised to help with everything, from selling the property to searching through his father’s old belongings, packing moving boxes, and he’d even sent a letter to Professor Longbottom, to enlist his aid when it came to taking care of his father’s magical plant collection. 

Neville had predictably been very interested (especially so in the bed of Flitterbloom, the Cobra Lilies, and his father’s beloved old Wiggentree in the very back of the garden), and had promised to make sure Noreen would get to keep a pot of the magenta-coloured Umbrella Flowers she loved so much. 

* * *

Oliver jumped in the shower the minute he got back to his flat, enjoying how the water ran down his body in rivulets, cleaning the light sheen of sweat from his skin. This was his favourite part of his morning routine. 

A simple enchantment made sure his shower was always set to the right temperature, and he’d experimented with the water pressure enough to reach a satisfactory result. 

If he was honest with himself - which he tried to be most of the time - he had to admit that he used a lot of magic for mundane things. Growing up with a Muggle parent had taught him that, although it came to him naturally, it wasn’t something he should be taking for granted. 

20 minutes later, he was dressed in his navy-blue practice robes and training gear, wand held tightly in his right hand and Firebolt in his left. Apparating to the pitch was something he could do in his sleep, yet he consistently made sure he adhered to the strict regulations. 

Over the years, a couple of his teammates had missed out on matches due to unfortunate Splinching accidents, and Oliver was determined never to let that happen. 

The slight disorientation that came with the Apparition process had him in its grip for only a few seconds, then he stepped forward onto the rich green Quidditch pitch and breathed in deeply. This was home. 

“You’re early, Wood, but I’m sorry, I beat you by at least five minutes,” chimed a bright voice behind him, the tone just shy of a mockery. Oliver turned around and smiled at the man who had spoken, Emery Albinson, Puddlemere’s Seeker and the team’s youngest member. 

“For the first time this month. Albinson, you’re not anywhere close enough to my record to consider you serious competition,” he retorted, then dodged the Quaffle thrown at him.

“Isn’t the Keeper supposed to catch the Quaffle? Or did I misread the rules again?” Emery mused, then gave Oliver another challenging look and mounted his broom. 

They were usually the first ones to arrive, moments before practice passing in harmony between the two men with a one-track mind for Quidditch. Often, Oliver would watch Emery fly for a couple rounds of warm-up, then judge his form and give him advice. 

The Seeker had the slight build prominent for players on his position, and at the beginning of his career, had been prone to executing risky flight manoeuvres that led to some costly injuries. With Oliver’s help, they’d managed to hone some of them into useful tactics devised to disorient opposing teams. 

Oliver allowed Emery a small head start, then got on his Firebolt and chased after his cackling Seeker, warm-up devolving into a game of catch that had the wind racing through Oliver’s hair and the blood pumping through his veins. 

Emery was fast and crafty, but Oliver had experience on his side. Outflying someone whose habits he was keenly aware of was a small feat. 

A shout from the ground interrupted their shenanigans, and Oliver let Emery break out of the slight hold he had him in, short blond strands dishevelled from the knuckles the Keeper had raked through them. 

Laughing, the two descended and landed next to their waiting captain who watched the spectacle with a slight smile and rolled his eyes as the two approached.

Duncan Wallace was tall, his build almost imposing if it weren’t for the fact that he was half an inch shorter than Oliver. His shoulders were broader, though, muscles easy to spot when he wasn’t wearing his Quidditch robes. 

Wallace was one half of Puddlemere’s incredibly solid Beater duo which made him and Gareth Vosper the only Beater captains in the entire British and Irish League. Incidentally, they were both three years Oliver’s seniors, and had been in the same Hogwarts year - Wallace a Hufflepuff and Vosper a Ravenclaw - both captains of their respective house’s teams. 

He liked Wallace’s style of leadership, liked his hard work and dedication to the classics, the strict training regimen, and the surprising openness for freedom and experimentation Wallace granted the team when they fulfilled his expectations, not unlike a reward. 

“So,” Wallace started, determined blue eyes meeting Oliver’s brown ones, “I got a letter from Gareth this morning. He wants you and Siobhán to try out for the National team. I assume you already heard.” It was more a statement than a question, Wallace was well aware that players received individual invitations.

“Yes, the owl arrived early this morning. Siobhán got one, too? Did she decide to play for England, then? Or is she still on the fence?”

Siobhán Wymond was the other half of Puddlemere’s Beater duo. Her mother had played for the Irish National team in the past, a successful Chaser with a long-standing career as captain of the Kenmare Kestrels. Mr Wymond, however, was as English as they came, and after her parents’ divorce, Siobhán had moved to his place in Salisbury (where she still lived). 

Since Siobhán was plenty talented herself, lots of bets had been placed on which National team she would eventually end up joining. Oliver himself had told George Weasley to put five Galleons on England in his name. George had winked at him, and, being the savvy businessman that he was, had doubled the wager. 

“You can ask her yourself, she should be arriving soon. I just wanted you to know,” here he put a careful hand on Wood’s shoulder and squeezed, “that I’m proud of what you have achieved with this team. I’ll release you from practice so you can attend the tryouts, and, should you make the team, you’ll be allowed to travel to all future games and training camps the team holds and participates in. What I ask is that you take a good look at our reserves and pick a Keeper whom you consider an appropriate replacement. And, Oliver,” Wallace grinned, though it looked slightly pained, “don’t let it get to your head.” 

Oliver, who had turned red around the nose, laughed and struggled to meet his captain’s eyes, overwhelmed by the open praise. “Vosper wrote the same thing.” 

Emery slapped Oliver on the back. Hard. “Congrats, man! The National team! That’s actually bonkers!” Ever the tactile teammate, he offered Oliver a hug, and the Keeper accepted gratefully. 

Suddenly, Siobhán appeared with a quiet  _ pop _ , stumbling a few steps onto the pitch, then used her broom to steady herself, before she found secure footing again. A broad grin split her face in half. 

Oliver thought she had never looked more radiant. Her long, kinky ginger hair was tied back in a ponytail, her charcoal eyes glinted with excitement and the morning sun reflected in the metal buttons on her navy-blue robes. 

He could admit privately to himself, that, if he were into women, he’d probably have a crush on her. She was the epitome of tall, dark and beautiful, and her passion for Quidditch rivalled his own on occasion. 

As it stood, she’d already had to reject advances from half the League, and Oliver really didn’t envy her. His own popularity had netted him his fair share of uncomfortable conversations and obnoxious letters, not an experience he wished on anyone. 

Emery rushed forward to hug her as well, and she lifted the small Seeker off the ground and spun him around. 

“Finally! I still can’t believe it, dad was over the moon!” She set Emery back down, then turned to Wallace to embrace him. “Duncan, I was finally given a shot! Thank you for everything!” 

Where Oliver was barely taller than Wallace, Siobhán towered a full head above him, her 6’7” comfortably dwarfing his 6’2”. She’d been a year ahead of Oliver at Hogwarts, and there had been a lot of mean rumours floating around, but he had it on good authority that even the meanest Slytherin hadn’t had the stones to dare confront the steadfast Hufflepuff directly.

Wallace hesitated visibly before he gave in to the hug, wrapped his arms around her and held on for a moment. Their captain wasn’t especially particular to physical contact, but now it seemed he had resigned himself to his fate and made a decent attempt to enjoy it. When he awkwardly patted her on the back after a few long seconds, she let go, then turned her attention towards Oliver. 

“You’re going too, right? Gareth couldn’t have not invited you after the season you’ve had. Best Keeper stats in the League, if I recall correctly?” Her joy was so infectious, it was impossible to refrain from grinning. 

“Guess you won’t get rid of me so easily, Wymond,” Oliver said, then gripped her right hand in both of his and gave her the most exaggerated businessman handshake he was capable of. “Good work, exceptionally done.” 

Siobhán waved him off, laughing, and next he knew, he found himself enveloped in yet another hug. 

* * *

Practice went by in a flash, the rest of the Puddlemere squad arrived eventually, and there were more hugs, handshakes and congratulations to be exchanged. Most of their teammates seemed to be genuinely happy for the pair, saw it as a chance for them to represent their team to the entire nation. 

Even Ernest Drummond, one of their Chasers who was nominated for the Scottish reserve gave Oliver a heartfelt pat on the back and mumbled, “Not bad, Wood, not bad,” during a quiet moment between flight drills. 

“According to Vosper’s letter, tryouts start this Saturday and are set to last a whole week. I expect both of you to come back to me unharmed, or we will have words,” Wallace addressed them after his closing speech. 

He’d approved of Oliver’s choice of Catriona Munroe as replacement Keeper but had struggled to pick a Beater, visibly distraught by the fact that Siobhán would be leaving him to his own devices when she’d never missed a single practice since her recruitment.

It was hard to watch the two of them interact sometimes, Wallace’s crush was obvious to the trained observer, and Siobhán never let on whether she knew or was indeed painfully oblivious. 

“Wood, Wymond - good luck. As your captain, I know all about your potential, and I couldn’t have picked two players better suited to represent this team. Also...send Vosper my regards. Apparently, his sense of judgement isn’t completely impaired yet. Though he should lay off the Firewhiskey anyway,” he chuckled, then looked past them towards the pitch. Despite the many years he’d been living in England now, his thick Scottish brogue always broke through when he got emotional. 

“Don’t be silly, Duncan. You’re acting like we won’t be back next week to ruin your meticulously crafted set pieces.” The smile Siobhán was wearing now had a soft note to it.

“Yeah,” Oliver quickly agreed, “even if we make the team, we won’t be missing constantly, captain. You won’t have to plan for a season without us. Apart from the World Cup, international breaks aren’t supposed to interfere with the League schedule, after all.” 

This was, of course, a more or less empty reassurance - last season a friendly between Scotland and France had lasted for six entire days, the horrible weather had caused visibility conditions so rotten that the french Seeker had only been able to end the game when the Snitch had literally flown into his face and broken his nose.

“While that is true, I just don’t understand why the bloody tryouts can’t take place at the same time. Scotland last week, England next week, Wales the week after, and Merlin knows when the two Irelands are set to hold theirs because I sure as hell haven’t been informed thus far. I have practices to plan, performances to evaluate, and line-up decisions to make!”

Privately, Oliver thought to himself that, besides his pent-up anger, Wallace looked almost regretful, and he wondered whether his captain had passed up on the opportunity himself, in the past. Wallace was a Scotsman through and through, and a solid player to boot. There was no way he’d never been invited to try out for Scotland. 

“It’s the illusion of autonomy. The Committees like to pretend that they have a lot more power and independence than they actually do,” Siobhán gave him a sympathetic smile, which served to improve Wallace’s mood significantly.

Oliver said his goodbyes, but not before he and Siobhán made plans to meet outside the National team’s training grounds in Derbyshire on Saturday. It was early afternoon, there was still half a day left to fill, and he needed to inform his mother. 

* * *

The Muggle telephone sat on a small table next to the couch in the living room. He only used it to contact two people: his mother, and his landlady. 

Mrs Steward, a proud Squib amongst other things, was a busy little woman in her fifties, she lived in the flat below his, widowed, but successfully raising three well-groomed Bull Terriers by the names Ed, Ted and Fred. She’d come to love Oliver for his uncanny ability to “fix” even the most broken gadgets, and his general helpfulness. 

He’d already been offered multiple discounts on his rent, yet had declined every single one, though he had taken her up on the offer to look after his owl while he was gone, a jolly little owl by the name of Joscelind (named, of course, after the famous Puddlemere Chaser Joscelind Wadcock). 

She didn’t care much for Quidditch but read the  _ Daily Prophet _ religiously, so she always knew when to call and offer congratulations for a Puddlemere United victory.

With the amount of money stowed away in his Gringotts vault, he’d be able to afford a comfortable place of his own in most of England’s magical communities, but he enjoyed the anonymity and peace that came with living in this neighbourhood. 

Nobody here knew him well enough to call him by his first name, they had no idea what he did for a living and when they met him on the street, he was just another passerby to ignore politely. Here, he could focus on the only thing that really mattered - Quidditch - unhindered by outside interruptions. 

Although his fireplace  _ was  _ connected to the Floo Network, a concession he’d made readily enough, and his closest friends tended to visit him whenever their schedules allowed for it, though that happened rather infrequently. George had been his most recent visitor when he’d swung by to announce Angelina’s pregnancy in April. 

His mother answered after the fourth ring. It was a Wednesday, just short of three p.m., she would have been in the garden to enjoy the rare sunny day, maybe tending to the bed of blindingly colourful Gladiolus she was so proud of. 

“Hey, mum, I wanted to ask if it would be okay for me to hop over for a visit? I’ve got some great news to tell you.” He’d tried for casual, nonchalant, and failed entirely, his voice brimming with excitement and impatience. 

Noreen Wood laughed quietly, a sound he hadn’t heard in too long, and something in his chest ached. Now he longed to tell her even more. “Of course you can come by, Ollie. My next class isn’t until six p.m. tomorrow, I’d love to have you here!” 

“I’ll be right over, then. Just need to change out of my practice robes.” Oliver replied, one hand already fiddling with the closest button. 

Another small bout of laughter. “No need. This is your home, you don’t have to look fancy for old Mr Nettle and me. I think he’s mostly blind at this point, he keeps walking into the closed greenhouse doors.”

Mr Nettle was his father’s ancient Siamese cat, once aptly named for its tendency to scratch at people’s ankles when it craved attention. The cat had already been around for years when Oliver was born, it had to be almost forty by now. When he’d been younger, Oliver had taken great pleasure from watching it chase around the Bowtruckles guarding his father’s Wiggentree. 

“Alright then. See you soon.” He hung up, pulled his wand from its protective pocket inside his robes, and five seconds later, stepped onto the stone path leading up to his family’s property in Eastnor. 

* * *

Compared to the manors most pureblood families lived in, the small two-storey building seemed more like a cottage than a house. It had originally been carved from one solid rock by Aloysius Wood five centuries ago, in an attempt to impress his bride-to-be. 

Wood had been a household name in the pureblood community for the longest time, but Aidan Wood was his parents’ only heir, so, out of the goodness of their hearts, they had decided not to disown him when he married a Muggle.

Oliver’s grandparents had emigrated to Canada during Voldemort’s first rise to power, not wanting to be associated with what they considered an ‘undignified, pointless conflict’ and, when the Dark Lord returned, they had offered Oliver’s parents a safe place to stay, demonstrating that they fully embraced Noreen as a member of the family. 

Oliver visited them on occasion, and they had returned to Eastnor for a while after his father’s passing, to help his mother with the preparations for the funeral and to assist her in their time of grief. To his surprise, they had offered both him and his mother to come live with them in Ontario, but they had gratefully declined (his mother under tears). 

Where Oliver’s Quidditch career was concerned, they’d both shown plenty of support. Grandfather Kenneth had said that, even though he had hoped Oliver would follow in his forefathers’ steps, Quidditch was an honourable profession and Keeper a position that came with a respectable amount of responsibility. His Grandmother Odelia, a big Quidditch fan herself, had only bemoaned the fact that he had picked Puddlemere over the Appleby Arrows, the team she favoured. 

Oliver approached the house through the vast garden, easily bypassing his own wards and protection charms. The lush greenery, the smell of the surrounding forest - all of this made him feel right at home. 

He stopped for a moment to admire his mother’s Gladiolus - they really were magnificent, growing steady and upright, their varicoloured blossoms visible from afar. 

She’d once told him that Muggles spoke of ‘green fingers’ when someone was particularly skilled at growing plants, and he thought this display certainly qualified her for it. 

He found his mother reading in the living room, sharing the couch with a lightly snoring Mr Nettle who was curled up on one of the lavender-coloured cushions. When she heard him enter, Noreen Wood immediately put the book down and got up to properly welcome him home. 

She seized him up for a second, gave him the typical motherly once-over, then stepped forward to pull him into a warm embrace that lasted longer than usual.

“You look good,” she stated, head leaning on his shoulder, “very handsome, like your father when he was your age.” Oliver gently patted her hair, long, dark auburn curls the exact same shade as the short yet messy cut he was currently sporting. 

“Guess that runs in the family,” he joked, and she drew away to smile at him. 

“Now, what are you so excited about that you had to tell me in person?” She grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the couch, then invited him to sit before suddenly turning around and taking a couple steps towards the kitchen. 

“Wait, don’t tell me yet, I forgot to prepare snacks, and there are some freshly picked apples in the-”

Oliver held up a hand. “Mum, you don’t have to...c’mon, just sit back down. We can eat later.”

Obviously convinced, she nodded to herself, sat down, and waited for him to explain. 

“Okay, so I got an owl this morning from my friend, Gareth Vosper - I’ve told you about him before, he's the captain of the Tutshill Tornados, the Beater with the green faux hawk, remember him? Anyway, he’s also captaining England’s National Quidditch team and he - he wants me to try out as Keeper! I’m supposed to head to Derbyshire with Siobhán. It’s set to start on Saturday! ” 

When he was finished, he realised how the words had come bubbling out of him in a rush like a dam had broken, and he hoped that his mother had been able to make sense of at least some of it.

“My son is going to play Keeper for England! Oh, Oliver, these are fantastic news! Your dad would be over the moon, he’d be so happy. I just…Oliver, I can’t wait to tell your grandparents about it. This is amazing!”

She was staring at him, hazel eyes wide and filled with a strong mix of love, pride, and a bone-deep melancholy he’d only seen a few times before -

* * *

_He’s eleven years old, standing next to his parents in_ _Ollivander’s crowded shop, clammy hand wrapped around a wand made of a kind of wood that seems a lot brighter than the material of the two previous wands he’d tried._

_ _

_ “Rowan and Unicorn hair, 12 inches, very bendy, yet resilient. Its properties will shine especially when it comes to defensive magic. You’ve got a good grip on it, yes? Try swinging it around a bit, young Mr Wood.” _

_ Oliver is pretty certain he’s never been more focused than in this very moment. His hand is shaking a little, but when he swings the wand, and it causes a slight breeze to blow by, accompanied by a strange chiming noise, he can feel a small smile spreading across his face. _

_ “Mum, dad, this is the right one! This is my wand, I’m sure of it!”  _

_ Completely ignoring the old man behind him, he gazes up at his parents expectantly. His dad appears enormously pleased, but there’s an odd shimmer in his mother’s eyes he cannot name, an expression he cannot place. She kisses his forehead and tousles his hair though, so everything must be alright.  _

_ _

* * *

_ He’s twenty-two years old, leaning on the entrance to his father’s greenhouse, head drooping with exhaustion, watching his father repot a Mandrake. The shrill screeching of the plant isn’t helping with his headache. Still, he can bear it for the time being.  _

_ “Why are you so stubborn? Whatever happened to make you so-- so unteachable, so selfish?” Aidan Wood sounds agitated, more agitated, in fact, than Oliver has ever heard his father before.  _

_ “Britain is my home, dad. I’m not going to just up and leave everything behind. I’m not like grandfather and grandmother, I can’t run from this like a coward!”  _

_ He starts pacing - however, there’s not much room in between the entrance and the rows upon rows of plants his father is growing here, and a sudden craving for the open sky flashes through him.  _

_ “My friends are in danger, and I won’t sit idly by until some bloody Death Eater swoops in and destroys all that’s worth protecting in this country, why can’t you understand that? They’re out there, murdering innocent people!” _

_ Everything feels so heavy, words falling out of his mouth like weights, shattering something in him he hadn’t even been aware of.  _

_ “Oliver, your mother will die if we stay here, and it will kill her if you refuse to come to Canada with us. You’re being unfair, and you know it!” _

_ Just as he is about to wrack his brains for another cutting remark that will surely teach his father who’s in the right here, someone lays a hand on his arm, and he turns around to find his mother looking up at him. There are no traces of tears on her face. Instead, his eyes are met with steely determination, an expression he himself has put on many a time.  _

_ “I think Oliver has already made his decision, and nothing you can say will change his mind. Have you looked at our son recently, Aidan? He lives on his own, provides for himself, looks out for himself. We can offer him help, offer him advice, but in the end, he’s an adult, and we have no right to keep him from choosing whatever path he wants to follow. No matter how much pain it might cause us.”  _

_ When she opens her mouth again, she is speaking directly to Oliver, eyes unwavering, unblinking. “You’re my only son, and I couldn’t possibly love you more. If staying behind is truly what you want, I won’t discourage you from it. I trust you, Ollie. Just please. Please promise me you’ll be careful.” _

_ Her hands are stable when she pulls at his robes, fixes up his collar and uses a tissue to wipe at the splatter of blood covering his left cheek. It is not his.  _

_ “Are you leaving tomorrow?” he asks, almost dreading the answer.  _

_ “At first light,” his dad replies, back turned to them, hands buried deep in a patch of soil, “your grandmother left us a Portkey. The house is yours to do with as you please, though I’m not sure it is a safe enough location to hide anyone here, no matter how good your wards are.” It’s like all fight has left him at his wife’s words. _

_ “Stay safe, son.” _

_ Oliver finally feels like he can breathe again. Parting in anger is the last thing he wants.  _

_ Not when this might be the last time he can hold his mother’s wiry frame against his chest, can watch his father, as Aidan Wood makes sure the Mandrake’s roots are adequately covered so it can return to sleep.  _

_ “Thank you. For everything,” he says, suddenly struggling to hold back tears. _

_ “This isn’t goodbye,” his mother whispers reassuringly, eyes alight with what seems to Oliver like an unshakeable sense of certainty.  _

_ _

* * *

_ He’s twenty-three years old, it’s been barely a day since Voldemort was defeated, and he’s standing on his parents’ doorstep, wondering whether they have returned yet. _

_ Oliver is pulling at the frayed sleeves of his robes, fidgeting, staring at the doorknob. Chewing his lips bloody. _

_ Even if his family is home, does he want to face them so soon? Bone-deep weariness is written into every angle of his body.  _

_ At least there are no visible scars, Madame Pomfrey took good care of every survivor, had worked through the night to make sure she saved everything that could be saved.  _

_ His father ends up making the decision for him, pushing open the door with a hasty “I won’t be long, just want to take a quick look at the flower beds before - Oliver!” The shock in his eyes could be considered comical under different circumstances.  _

_ Oliver steps back, loses his balance (this hasn’t happened in years) - but his father is right there to catch him, a warm grip on his shoulder. Steadying, Grounding.  _ Maybe this is all real after all _ . He doesn’t know whether he likes the thought.  _

_ “Ollie?” It’s his mum’s voice, quiet and tentative, almost like she doesn’t want to let herself believe. He leans on the doorframe for additional support, his feet don’t seem too trustworthy right now.  _

_ “Mum, dad.” His tongue feels heavy and unused.  _ Don’t close your eyes. 

_ From one second to the next, he finds himself enveloped in a group hug with his parents, his mother has her arms wrapped tightly around whatever parts of him she can reach, his father is standing behind him, holding on and holding him up at the same time.  _

_ His throat is so dry, and he can’t stop blinking. There is an inviting blackness tugging at the edges of his consciousness, he hasn’t slept in at least two days.  _

_ “He’s gone now,” is all he can manage between deeps breaths. The scent of his mother’s shampoo and the natural smell of the garden around him are close to overwhelming.  _

_ “He’s gone, and he took so many with him,” he doesn’t say.  _

_ When he closes his eyes, Fred’s empty stare haunts him, along with impressions of Lupin and Tonks’ unmoving bodies lying on the ground like a pair of Muggle mannequins.  _

_ When he tries to sleep, he finds himself flying again, one hand on his broom, one hand on his wand, crouched low, leading an aerial assault on the Death Eaters and their fearsome army. Then the Ravenclaw flying next to him falls, hit by a green flash of light, dropping out of sight into the depths below, and Oliver knows he can do nothing for them anymore, choosing to press on instead.  _

_ A hand - it’s his - aims his wand at the closest hooded figure ahead of him. He doesn’t have to say the spell out loud, not anymore - and he strikes true. Purple flames blaze, and the figure starts screeching, primal sounds of fear and pain.  _

_ Oliver doesn’t look back, he turns to the next enemy and adjusts his aim, head focused and heart cold with the hollow satisfaction of revenge.  _

_ His mother’s hands are gentle as she combs through his hair, which had grown longer than usual over the past couple months. Getting a haircut just hadn’t been that far up on his list of priorities.  _

_ “Everything is fine now,” she says, comforting in that determined motherly tone, and he wants so badly to believe her. Nothing is fine.  _ But maybe it can be again. Eventually.

_ He feels no shame for what he’s done. His actions had helped save and protect many people, but he’s pretty certain that they have also changed him, and he doesn’t know enough about his new self yet to make a final judgement.  _

_ Though he has no idea how to put that into words, how to explain war to his parents when he’s struggling just to stand upright.  _

_ Together, they half-carry half-walk him to the living room and arrange pillows and a woollen blanket on the couch. _

_ “You need to rest,” his father states, voice leaving no room for arguments. And so, Oliver lays down. There is no fight left in him, no resistance.  _

_ When he’s all settled, shoes off - wrapped into the blanket because he’s shaking despite the pleasant temperatures of a summer evening - his father sits down in the old armchair on the other side of the table, and his mother kneels down next to the couch.  _

_ She’s holding his hand - grip not too tight, then she squeezes it softly, and as he looks up into her eyes, he realises that she’s crying. They’re both crying. Silent tears roll down Oliver’s cheeks, and the body of his mother shakes with the force of her sobs. _

_ Neither of them speaks, they’re just looking at each other, and as the sun sets outside and the shadows inside the room spread their long fingers until they reach up to his mother’s throat, he keeps holding her gaze.  _

_ Oliver has his father’s eyes, warm and brown and trustworthy, she has remarked on this quite often in the past, has said how much she loves that he has that same openness about him. Still, when she regains control of her breathing somewhat and gives him her slow, enigmatic smile, he wishes they were that exact soothing shade of hazel instead. Calm yet quietly expressive.  _

_ He sleeps, and it’s dreamless, Noreen Wood working her very own kind of protective spell.  _

* * *

\- but Oliver was twenty-five now, an accomplished Quidditch player, a war veteran, he’d seen a lot of people go through a lot of wildly different emotions, experienced some of them himself, and he was fairly convinced that what he saw in his mother’s eyes was acceptance - acceptance of her own powerlessness. 

She wasn’t a witch or even a squib, she’d never come into contact with magic before she’d met his father. Noreen Wood had simply accepted that there wasn’t much she could do to assist Oliver when it came to matters of the magical world. 

Going off to Hogwarts, fighting and winning a war against the Dark Lord, qualifying for the most prestigious Keeper position in the entire country - all of these were things she could not help him with, things she had to let him do on his own. And she had decided somewhere along the way that she trusted him to do those things, and do them right. 

“Please don’t tell anybody yet, it’s far from confirmed. I might not even end up getting picked. There’s Jude Harrington from Ballycastle, England’s current Keeper who had to sit out the last World Cup due to injury. Or the formidable Kelsey Robinson who’s been keeping Appleby’s hoops pretty clear this season. I’m sure both of them will be at the tryouts, so I’m far from a safe bet.” 

It was rather futile, really. There was no point in trying to convince her, not when- 

“You don’t believe that, Ollie. I can see it in your eyes, you don’t think anyone else stands a chance. Your play was exceptional this season - you know that your team knows it, your friend knows it, and I’m sure the Committee knows it, too. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have allowed him to invite you.”

She was standing before him now, arms crossed in front of her chest, head slightly tilted to the right, as she critically looked him over. 

“Remember when you said you’d eventually be declared Gryffindor’s captain after Charlie Weasley graduated? Or when you promised me your team would get to hoist the Cup again under your captaincy? I don’t like it when you try to downplay your ambition, it doesn’t suit you at all.”

Mr Nettle meowed into the silence, rose from his bed on the pillow, and climbed into Oliver’s lap to curl up there instead. He began absentmindedly petting the cat, while his mother sighed and shook her head fondly. 

“You’re going to Derbyshire, and you’re going to show them why you’re the only valid choice for the position. They’ll let you play for England, and I’ll be right there in the stands, cheering you on. You deserve this. So much.”

Oliver nodded, a slight smile stealing onto his lips. “Thanks mum. I’ll keep it in mind. It’s just. I’ve wanted this for so long, and now that it’s finally within my reach, I’m scared. What if I jinx it?” 

“Well…your dad always said you are gifted when it comes to protective charms. Not that I understand anything about how magic works, but...maybe you shouldn’t worry about jinxing it too much.”

A surprised laugh escaped him. Twenty-five years, and his mother still somehow managed to find the right words every time. 

“Now...mum, you said something about apples earlier. Did you want my help peeling them?” he asked, wand ready, Summoning Charm on his lips. His mother waved him off. 

“I’m not too old to walk to the kitchen, young man,” but when he rolled his eyes, she amended, “you know what, how about we meet in the middle? I’ll fetch the apples, you set the table.” And with that, she was on her way.

Five minutes later, they were sitting at the small oak wood dining room table, knives in hand, peeling and cutting the sweet fruit into palatable slices. Oliver knew it wasn’t that his mother hated magic - far from it. She did, however, consider most everyday spells to be unnecessary shortcuts. 

“You mentioned that your friend’s surname is Vosper, correct?” Noreen asked conversationally between bites. “He wouldn’t happen to be related to a certain Edric Vosper?”

Oliver could feel his eyebrows climb up towards his hairline. This, he had not expected. “Younger brother, why?”

His mother chuckled softly. “Because I remember you plastering the walls of your childhood bedroom with posters of him.”

A furious blush spread across his face, and he dropped the apple he was currently peeling, to better be able to hide behind his hands. “Merlin’s beard,  _ mum _ ! He was a brilliant Chaser, okay? Played for England in  _ two  _ World Cups!”

The thing was, he remembered the posters. And, okay, Edric had been an incredible Quidditch player, but he’d also been very attractive. Attractive enough to have been Oliver’s first crush. The kind of crush that had made him realise why exactly women had never interested him romantically. A revelation his family luckily hadn’t had any issues accepting. 

“But there’s nothing going on between you and this Gareth, is there?” She was leaning forward now, watching him closely, motherly curiosity written in the small wrinkles around her eyes. 

“No, we’re just mates. I’m not actively looking for any boyfriends at the moment, mum, and if I were seriously dating anybody, you’d be the first one to know. Swear on my old copy of  _ the Noble Sport of Warlocks _ .”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. There was someone, though, right?” her voice had gone all gentle now, careful like she was unsure how to continue. “Back, before the war...you seemed preoccupied then. More than you usually are, I mean. More than when Quidditch is all you can think about.” The apple and knife lay forgotten on the table, he had her full attention now.

Oliver hesitated. Now there was something he actively avoided thinking about. 

“That was years ago, and...it wouldn’t have worked out between us anyway. Fundamental differences and all that. Why are you bringing this up today?”

“Well, since your father died, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things. Loneliness, mostly. It’s been five months, and I feel like I’m already getting used to it, like a part of me is just numb now, a phantom limb that used to hurt, but doesn’t anymore. I - I feel so guilty sometimes, I don’t want the pain to go away.” 

One of her hands was clinging tightly to the red tablecloth. He reached out with his own hands and wrapped them around hers. 

“Despite all of this, I don’t regret a single choice I’ve made. And I don’t want you regretting things either. You live in that flat all by yourself, you wake up alone and go to bed alone. I know you feel like you don’t need anything else because you got Quidditch, and you don’t want your focus to be disturbed. Believe me, I’ve been in your shoes. So if there’s someone out there you fancy, if there’s a chance they could make you happy, take a shot at it. Please. At least think about it, Ollie.”

He swallowed, gaze wandering to the big family portrait that hung above the mantle by the fireplace. The photo had been taken by a friend of the family after the war when his grandparents had stayed with them for a short time. Everybody was smiling in it, his mum and dad were sitting on the big, old bench in the back garden, he and his grandparents were standing behind it, with Oliver in the middle, even towering over his grandfather, whose tall, broad-shouldered stature he’d inherited. 

“I’m fine mum, it’s alright, really. During the season I have practice five times a week anyway, with games on most weekends. My schedule wouldn’t really allow for a relationship. Percy invited me to come stay with him for a week once the season is over and I’m exchanging letters with most of my other mates regularly. You don’t have to worry about my social life.”

She left the topic alone after that, but Oliver caught her looking at him a couple of times, eyes contemplative, lines around her mouth tense. 

* * *

They finished off the apples, then went outside to garden for a few hours. Even though he’d never quite discovered the same passion for plants in himself that his family so proudly displayed, working with his dad’s tools was oddly comforting. 

He watered the flowerbeds using his father’s clever  _ Aguamenti  _ modification, then went to check on the Wiggentree. It was what his mother mostly agonised about, so Oliver generally came by to take care of things. “I wish I could get close enough to give it a good trimming, but I’m worried about the tiny Bowtruckles, they seem so afraid that I could hurt their tree.”

Dinner was a cheerful affair, with his mother telling him about what her friends and coworkers had gotten up to recently, and Oliver, in turn, regaling her with tales of practice mishaps. They shared a bottle of Nettle wine from the stash his grandparents had brought along on their last visit and went to bed afterwards. 

Oliver had made a spontaneous decision to spend the night. He had Thursday and Friday off, since practice sessions were reduced to three times a week during the League’s month-long summer break from mid-July to mid-August, so there was no need to return to his flat until he needed to pack for Derby.

His old bed was just long enough to accommodate him without crossing into uncomfortable territory, and now he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He’d removed his wall of posters ages ago, but the moving star chart was still innocently twinkling above him. 

As it turned out, suppressing memories was a lot easier when your mother didn’t suddenly remind you of them. It had taken him three years to get to this point. Three years, in which he’d tried as hard as possible to forget about what he’d almost had with Marcus Flint. And now he was back to lying awake, tossing and turning restlessly, wondering whether he was angrier with Marcus, or himself.  _ Fucking wanker _ .

* * *

Saturday morning arrived quicker than he’d thought possible. The Woods had spent the last two days cleaning and fixing up both house and garden. Shockingly, his mother had barely complained about Oliver’s abundant use of magic, but she had rolled her eyes every single time he’d resorted to the Summoning Charm, so he’d ended up casting it constantly, just to annoy her. 

They’d also gone on long morning runs together, with Oliver setting the pace and his mother showing no difficulty in keeping up. 

All in all, he’d really enjoyed his short vacation at home, and - by all means - he should feel well-rested and prepared for today if it wasn’t for the small fact that he’d had trouble sleeping since Wednesday. 

He’d kissed his mother goodbye, returned to his flat to pack for the next week and was now nervously pacing back and forth in front of his fridge, waiting for the clock to strike ten so he could go meet up with Siobhán. 

Assuming that they’d be provided with the appropriate practice attire, Oliver had opted for a black pair of shorts and a non-descript red t-shirt. The weather was still strangely warm for a proper English summer. 

No later than five seconds past ten, he Apparated onto the vast field surrounding the Old England Stadium which had seen regular use for international games until the Ministry had constructed the Quidditch Trillenium Stadium for the World Cup in ‘94. Now it was mostly used for the National team’s regional training camps, and - according to one of Percy’s mates - could be rented as a space for wedding parties. 

Broom in hand and carrying luggage issued with an Extension Charm, he leaned against one of the ancient, gnarled birch trees that stood scattered across the otherwise undisturbed grassland. 

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long. An instant later, Siobhán appeared with the tell-tale noise that commonly accompanied an Apparition. She took a moment to find her footing, then looked around, and her face lit up as she spotted Oliver. 

“Oliver, hi! Merlin, I’m so excited! Have you heard from any of the other new nominees yet?” They high-fived, and, when he shook his head, she added, ”Cassidy Nye sent me an owl to personally congratulate me for making the team. To be honest, I think it was more about me picking England over Ireland than anything else,” then laughed. 

Siobhán linked arms with him, and they made their way over to the stadium, easily passing the Concealment Charm put in place to deter Muggles.

“My mother actually visited me on Thursday after hearing from the Irish Committee about how I, and I quote ‘decided to become an ungrateful bloody turncoat’. Two solid years of radio silence, and then she shows up out of nowhere to complain about my lack of Irish patriotism. Ridiculous.” Oliver couldn’t help but agree. 

* * *

At the gates, they were greeted by an elderly groundsman who noted down their names with a gold-plated quill and handed each of them a set of numbered locker room keys, then pointed them towards the pitch.

They walked through a net of interconnected hallways, following the directions they’d been given, and finally reached a broad set of steel doors that led them outside, onto the most well-tended pitch Oliver had ever set foot on. 

He took a deep breath, inhaling the clean, fresh air and realisation hit him anew that this was  _ it _ . His goal was so close he could almost grasp it. A sideways glance at Siobhán’s wide eyes told him that she had to be having similar thoughts. Tugging gently at her arm, he took another step, and she followed him readily. Together, they approached the small crowd of people that had already formed around the nearest set of goalposts.

As they got closer, a figure broke from the group and headed towards them. Even at a distance, Gareth’s terrible hair choices immediately gave him away, and Oliver could feel a grin spreading across his face. He took the last couple steps towards his friend at a running pace and was immediately enveloped in one of Gareth’s infamous bear hugs.

Oliver stepped aside so Siobhán could undergo the same procedure, which gave him ample time to observe that neither the captain nor any of the others were wearing their practice robes yet. Instead, Gareth had decided on one of his ratty old  _ Weird Sisters _ tank tops.

“Wood, Wymond, it’s good to have you here. I see you’ve already been given your keys, so let me show you to your lockers. We don’t need the brooms yet, it’s introductions first, then we’ll head to a nearby inn so you can get rid of that pesky luggage. Oh, also lunch.” 

While he was talking, he’d grabbed both of them by the shoulders and pushed them back into the direction they’d come from. 

Another short trip later, they’d stored their brooms in the spacious locker rooms. There were two, one for men and one for women, each had a big bathroom attached to it, with showers that reminded Oliver a little of the luxury he’d witnessed the one time Percy had snook him into the Prefect’s Bathroom. 

“We’ve taken the liberty of stowing your official practice robes in your lockers, so you can change as soon as we get back this afternoon. I don’t like wasting time.” He winked at Oliver, who simply sighed and rolled his eyes, which caused Siobhán to fake a coughing fit in order to disguise her laughter. 

“You don’t like wasting time, but you lead us down here when you could have waited for the rest to arrive first. Smart thinking, Vosper,” Oliver lectured him in mock-annoyance.

“Rest, what rest? You were the last ones to arrive. I thought it was common knowledge that you have to arrive at least half an hour early,” Gareth replied nonchalantly, then immediately raised his hands in an appeasing gesture when he noticed their shocked expressions.

“I’m kidding, okay, kidding. Appleby’s still missing, and Ballycastle is always late. I’m fairly certain that Harrington does it just to piss me off. Considering how he’s been here before, he can show Flint and Robinson around. The only reason you two are getting the grande tour from me is that Wallace sent me a howler advising me to ‘better make all this hassle worth it’. Figured the least I could do was humour him since you’re both  _ chicks  _ and all.” He shrugged like this was a regular occurrence.

Oliver nearly choked on his spit. It was a close thing, and Siobhán had to give him a couple strong pats on the back.  _ Flint _ . Merlin, he really should have seen this coming. 

Trying to calm down, he managed to even out his breath just in time to hear a bewildered Siobhán ask, “Wallace did  _ what  _ now?”

“I see you’ve never come into contact with your captain’s overprotective nature. Hmm, all these years playing for Puddlemere and you never realised? Must have hidden it better than he did back at school. Aye, Hufflepuffs are loyal and all that, but he takes it to an entirely new level.” 

* * *

Finally, they made it back to the surface. A friendly inquiry with the other waiting players informed Gareth that Appleby and Ballycastle still hadn’t arrived, and a scrawny-looking redhead Oliver quickly identified as Portree’s Seeker, Neil Parish, wanted to know whether Gareth was going to report them to the Committee for ‘failing to adhere to League standards’.

This earned him a disgusted sneer from Tutshill’s Seeker, Patricia Sampson, a slender young woman with dark skin and short, black curls. “You think my captain’s a rat, Parish? Not all of us rush to the referee because we caught a splinter from a passing Nimbus 2004. Bloody hell, loosen up a little.” 

Oliver caught sight of the grin Gareth wasn’t fast enough to hide. Parish and Sampson’s rivalry was practically legendary at this point, their childish dislike of each other reminding him of Harry and Malfoy’s earlier years. 

“No, I won’t be reporting anybody. At least not for being late. So please calm down, you two- Ahh, there we go, the renowned Appleby Arrows have deigned it appropriate to honour us with their illustrious presence.” And he gestured towards the approaching figures of Kelsey Robinson and Marcus Flint, both proudly wearing their bright blue robes with the silver arrow emblazoned on the chest. 

Robinson was her usual reserved self, long brown hair tied to a neat knot on top of her head, the look on her freckled face guarded and aloof. 

Marcus - Oliver swallowed - he had to admit that Marcus looked good. The summer break seemed to have eased some of the tension from his cool grey eyes, and he must have recently gotten a haircut, his short black strands were carefully gelled to look just the right kind of messy. 

When Marcus grinned at something Robinson said, he showed off a row of flawless teeth. 

A healer at St. Mungo’s had fixed them for him after a Bludger aimed by one of Wimbourne’s Beaters had smashed his upper jaw two years ago. 

The picture of his “improved” smile had graced the front pages of rags like  _ Witch Weekly _ for weeks which had led to Oliver refusing multiple interviews, and culminated in Rita Skeeter writing a scathing, yet (in his opinion) poorly researched article about his falling out with ex-Puddlemere Chaser Jack Paisley. 

George still had framed copies of that lying around somewhere, he’d started sending one as a gag-gift for Oliver’s birthday every year, calling it the ‘single most moving piece of literature he’d ever had the joys of reading’. Oliver found himself agreeing, in that it instantly moved him to repeatedly bang his head against the nearest wall when he was reminded of its existence. Harry had sent him a conciliatory note that had included a vivid retelling of his own struggles with Skeeter. 

The thing was, back before the war Oliver hadn’t been attracted to Flint because of his looks or his toned shape, those just irritated him. He’d liked Flint, because, on some abstract plane where Quidditch and winning were the only two things that truly mattered, Flint had understood him. They had disagreed about the way to get there, sure, had vastly different strategies and philosophies when it came to running their teams. But what they’d always respected about each other was their drive, their passion. 

“You’re late,” Gareth stated, fixing both of them with a slightly irked look, “the invitation clearly said to arrive between ten and ten-thirty.”

Robinson raised her eyebrows. “When I consulted Cecil Diggory of the Committee on Friday, he told me that there was no need to get here before eleven, and since it’s not eleven yet, I consider us to be quite on time.” 

“Why are you already making this difficult? You’re still not over the loss in April, is that it? Merlin’s shrivelled left ball sack, why are you Keepers so bloody irritating all the time? Harrington is the exact same way,” he threw his hands up in indignation, then quickly added, “no offence, Wood, exceptions prove the rule and all that.” 

Oliver snorted. ”None taken.” 

Their exchange had clearly alerted Flint to his presence, as his eyes met Oliver’s for a brief instant - just long enough for Oliver to be able to read the scorn in them. 

That was fine, though, that was  _ great _ . Since they would be forced to occupy roughly the same space for a week, he was perfectly alright with Flint keeping his distance. 

They hadn’t spoken a word between them in years, not even in all the times they’d faced each other on the pitch (beyond the very first post-war game). As far as their record was concerned, Oliver was up by two wins.

* * *

It took another twenty minutes for Jude Harrington to show up, and when he did, he was accompanied by one of his Beaters, League youngster Ada Slater, and none other than a nervously chattering Roger Davies. 

Roger had gotten picked up by Ballycastle two seasons ago, and while he wasn’t the fastest or flashiest of Chasers, his play had brought a new variety to Ballycastle’s offence that clearly qualified him for tryouts with England’s National team. 

The captain welcomed them with a long-suffering expression which stood in clear contrast to the wide smirk Harrington was sporting. “Glad you could make it, really, absolutely stoked to have you here,” Gareth said, every word dripping with sarcasm, and took an exuberant bow. 

Davies and Slater, clearly out of their depth, looked on as their Keeper walked up to Gareth and grabbed his hand, shaking it in an overly polite fashion. 

“Me too, old friend, me too.” 

Gareth sighed, then waved at Harrington’s teammates, looking slightly apologetic. 

“Okay, since everyone’s here now, Harrington would you be so kind as to show the remaining  _ chicks  _ to their lockers? I need to send a quick owl to the Committee, let them know it’s time to move their lazy arses over here and introduce themselves.”

“Why do you keep calling us that?” Siobhán asked, voice wary. Gareth seemed confused for a moment, then he smiled in realisation.

“Oh,  _ chicks _ ? Baby birds, you know? Players who haven’t flown for England yet. Thought that term was common knowledge, sorry.” And then he was off, hurrying in the direction Oliver suspected the captain’s office was in. 

“He’s  _ so _ weird,” Parish commented; his inflexion made it impossible to tell whether he meant it as criticism. 

“Vosper hasn’t changed much since his school days. Brilliant tactician, though, always has been,” Oliver said, and Siobhán nodded in agreement. 

During his time at Hogwarts, students had often wondered why Gareth had been sorted into Ravenclaw when he obviously had so little interest in studying. He’d famously been banished from Professor Vector’s N.E.W.T class for repeatedly using it to predict the trajectory of Bludgers and Quaffles under different conditions, and Flitwick had used Gareth’s sleeping through his morning classes as a cautionary tale for students years after the Beater had graduated. 

Charlie Weasley, however, had told Oliver that Gareth had once let him take a look at his playbook, in exchange for the right to use the pitch to practice the day before a Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw game, and that he’d been blown away by the intricacy of Gareth’s analytical skills. 

When asked about this by Oliver, Gareth had only said that Charlie Weasley’s mind had been blown by an entirely different skill set of his, thank you very much, and left it at that.

* * *

Although the players present were technically familiar with each other from their League matches, Gareth went to great lengths to ensure that everyone introduced themselves when they had finally managed to all gather on the pitch. 

The size of the whole group added up to twenty-one people, and Gareth explained that, over the course of the upcoming week, they’d conduct a number of training exercises concluded by a practice game versus Scotland on the following Saturday, to determine the six other players for the English starting line-up, and another seven for the reserve. 

The three members of the Committee joined them when they were halfway through introductions, but kept to themselves until the last player, Chaser Lynette Sharpe of Holyhead Harpies fame, was done introducing herself. 

Cecil Diggory, Brenda Watkins, and Selina Tate were all working for the Department of Magical Games and Sports. They functioned as a sort of supervisory authority, it was their job to make sure the English National Quidditch team was run efficiently, and everything proceeded seamlessly and above-board, effectively fulfilling the role of a manager. 

Except for the captain’s post which was theirs to award, every single nomination the captain wanted to hand out had to be approved by them first, a responsibility the Committee owed to one Albert Hobson, captain of both Scotland and the Montrose Magpies in 1771, and infamous for recruiting the entirety of the Magpies to the Scottish National team (which hadn’t placed too terribly in the following World Cup, but that was way beside the point.)

Not unlike a referee, the Committee members had to take an oath of impartiality.

Gareth explained that they would oversee the tryouts and were allowed to make suggestions, but when it came down to it, the decision on who ended up on the team was ultimately his. 

* * *

As Gareth had promised, they were able to leave their luggage at a nearby inn that was located in a small village with a relatively sizeable magical population. 

“Don’t worry, the villagers won’t harass you. Some may recognize you, but they’re so used to seeing Quidditch players roaming around these parts, meeting one has kind of lost its novelty.”

The  _ Bucking Broom  _ had a kind of homely feel to it, at least on the outside. When the group entered, the innkeeper led them through a pair of wide doors in the back, and it immediately became clear that the whole place was under an Undetectable Extension Charm.

A big wooden staircase wound its way through the middle of the second entrance hall and branched off into multiple floors, like a giant, interconnected tree.

“Cafeteria’s through the door on the right. Don’t look so shocked now, this place used to house many a spectator when the Old England Stadium was still in active use,” the innkeeper sulked, obviously insulted by the surprised expressions on multiple players’ faces. 

They were handed numbered keys with colour-coded fobs that indicated which floors their rooms were on. Oliver noted with satisfaction that his was a vibrant navy-blue, the exact same shade as his Puddlemere Quidditch robes.  _ Fourth floor _ .

“Room number eight, huh? I’ve got number ten, fancy escorting me on this arduous climb, Mr Wood?” Patricia Sampson asked him, jingling her key ring and motioning in the direction of the rather imposing staircase. 

“Gladly. I’m always up for more cardio,” Oliver consented easily, and they started to ascend the broad wooden steps.

“Lunch starts in half an hour! Make sure you’ve got everything stored away by then, latecomers get to pay for their own share!” Gareth called out to the dispersing crowd, then promptly Disapparated and reappeared with a loud  _ snap _ on the last couple stairs leading up to the sixth floor, cheerfully waving at the groaning players below. 

Oliver shook his head incredulously but couldn’t deny the swell of affection that overcame him at his friend’s ridiculous antics. “My mum would hate him,” he joked and continued to make his way up the stairs. 

“Oh, our manager despises him. If he weren’t such a menace on the pitch, he’d be in trouble constantly. We love him for it, though,” Sampson said, then wondered, “is it true he and Wallace were rivals at Hogwarts?”

“Rivals and best friends. They got up to a lot of hijinks together. Professor Sprout once took ten points off Ravenclaw because she didn’t appreciate the ‘corrupting influence’ Vosper had on her precious prefect,” he recounted. “You should ask Wymond about this if you want more details, she was part of the Hufflepuff team during Wallace’s captaincy.” 


	2. standing arm and arm, still so out of reach

They arrived on the fourth floor and split up to inspect their respective rooms.

Oliver was quite happy with what he found, the bed looked large and comfortable enough with its navy-blue bedspread and sheets, the room had an adjacent bathroom and the huge window let in a ton of natural light. 

A painting which Oliver recognised as a depiction of the ‘67 League finals’ famous Snitch hunt between the Kenmare Kestrels and Pride of Portree hung on the wall behind his bed, the small silhouettes of the Seekers chasing each other and a tiny golden speck of paint across the canvas. 

On the window sill sat a pot of bright orange ever-blooming Marigolds.

When he was done unpacking and placing his things in various compartments of the large wooden closet on the wall across from his bed, he made his way back down to the cafeteria, where he snagged a chair at a four-person table.

The other three seats were gradually filled by Siobhán, Roger Davies, and an uncertain-looking Ada Slater who was the last to arrive and tried to sneak her way to the empty chair as inconspicuously as possible. 

She mumbled something about sending an owl to her little brother, but shut up when Gareth stood up from the table he shared with the Committee members. 

Silence spread slowly across the room, as more and more players realised that their captain was about to make some kind of speech. 

“I hereby welcome all of you to the official tryouts of the English National Quidditch team, again. I know some of you might be wondering why we’re staying at this inn when you could just Apparate back and forth instead, so I’m going to explain it to you. 

“You’re a talented bunch, the most promising players the League has to offer, but talent is only going to get a team so far. What I’m looking for is camaraderie. Chemistry. Team-spirit. And I feel like that will be a lot easier to build when we’re all spending as much time together as possible. 

“I’m asking all of you to indulge me. Get to know each other. Many of you are on rival teams, there might even be some bad blood, no, I  _ know  _ there is. Understand, none of that has a place here. I can’t waste time on petty squabbling when I’m trying to put together a World Cup-winning team. 

“Now, I’m not going to keep you from your well-deserved meal any longer, my mouth is going dry from all this rambling, I need some water.” 

And with that, he sat down, and the room remained quiet for a few seconds longer before a few people started clapping, then everyone was, until a visibly flustered Gareth asked them to calm down. 

“He was almost doing well there, for a second,” Parish commented from the table next to theirs, filling his plate with various delicacies that had appeared on the previously empty dishes in the wake of Gareth’s speech. 

“Yeah, I got goosebumps,” Harrington added, then snorted into his potatoes.

“If you think about it, what he said has a lot of merit,” said Davies, chewing thoughtfully. 

Oliver quietly thought to himself that a lot of things Gareth did had merit, the Committee hadn’t made him captain for his questionable fashion sense, after all. 

That didn’t mean, however, that he had any idea about how to bury the hatchet with Flint. Or even if he actually wanted to. 

He chanced a look at the Chaser who was spooning stew into his mouth three tables over, while Montrose’s Seeker, Lennox Campbell, was clearly trying to get a rise out of Harpies Chaser Valmai Morgan who appeared more bored than anything. 

They also shared a table with Dean Thomas who played Chaser for the Kestrels and whose quick reactions and high passing accuracy Oliver had been pleasantly surprised by. Thomas had joined the Gryffindor team long after his time as captain and Harry had demonstrated a keen eye in recruiting him. 

Flint apparently had no trouble sharing a table with one of Harry Potter’s oldest friends, member of the DA and veteran of the Second Wizarding War. Thomas didn’t appear too bothered either if the way they peacefully shared a bottle of pumpkin juice was anything to go by. 

Suddenly, Oliver wasn’t feeling quite so hungry anymore. 

“Could you pass me the potatoes, Oliver?” Siobhán asked, effectively tearing him from his reverie. He handed her the bowl, then directed his attention towards his own plate, where an assortment of buttery mushrooms was waging war on an omelette. The food looked appetising, there was absolutely nothing wrong with it, and yet…

He speared one of the mushrooms with his fork, shoved it into his mouth, and started listlessly chewing. No point in upsetting his body’s nutritional balance over Marcus Flint.

“Hey, are those any good?” Before he could answer, Siobhán had stolen a mushroom and transferred it to her own plate, face the picture of innocence.

“Wymond, please refrain from stealing my food in the future, I see you’ve got a perfectly fine fish over there, why don’t you finish that instead?”

She playfully slapped him on the shoulder. “Sorry, you just looked so glum for a second. Can’t have that now, can we?” 

“You two sure seem close. Are you dating?” Oliver almost spat out the sip of pumpkin juice he’d just taken but managed to recover and swallow it at the last moment. 

He’d completely forgotten about Ada Slater, who was now watching him and Siobhán closely with an unsettling pair of wide blue eyes. 

“What? Me and Oliver? Dating? Merlin’s beard, no! He’s like the younger brother I never had.” Siobhán’s disbelieving laughter was warm and loud as she shook her head, then fixed a couple errant hairs that had escaped her ponytail. “Not that Oliver is unattractive or anything, it’s just...neither of us is interested in each other like that. Plus, Oliver is in a committed relationship with Quidditch.”

“Wow. Thanks. Not unattractive, exactly what I needed to hear, you’re truly the best backup I could ever wish for.” But he was grinning. His looks were one of the few things he knew he didn’t need to worry about. 

“Also, didn’t Rita Skeeter make it very clear that I’m romantically unavailable because I’m having an illicit affair with Percy Weasley? I guess it’s true what they say, young people don’t read enough anymore.” 

Although his body language and his tone were making it extremely obvious that he was kidding (who on earth confessed to ill-begotten romantic adventures while they were desperately trying to keep pumpkin juice from dripping onto their shorts?) Slater seemed not to have gotten the message. Because the next words out of her mouth were “You’re dating  _ Percy Weasley _ ?” at a volume that came close to a yell. So close, in fact, that the people who were now staring at them probably hadn’t been able to tell the difference. 

Oliver sighed deeply and wished the ground would swallow him whole. Or the ceiling. Maybe the wall behind him. He really wasn’t being picky, here. 

A look at Siobhán told him she knew exactly how he was feeling, but that she’d be too busy laughing at him in the coming moments for any serious displays of sympathy.  _ Pity _ .

“I knew it! I bloody well knew it, Wood!” Gareth had gotten up from his table and was on his way over. Oliver started wildly gesticulating for him to sit back down. 

“No! For the love of Godric Gryffindor’s left arsecheek, I’m not currently dating Percy Weasley, okay? It was a joke! I’m not dating anyone. Can you all just go back to eating,  _ please _ ? There’s nothing interesting going on over here.”

He made a show of picking up his fork and digging into what was left of his omelette, consciously aware that his face must be redder than a Gryffindor pennant. 

“I disagree,” said a cool voice, and when he raised his head, he was looking directly into Marcus Flint’s mocking eyes. “Personally, I think there’s nothing more worthwhile than witnessing someone publicly humiliate themselves. It never gets old.”

Great. Apparently, they were on speaking terms again. Flint was talking  _ at  _ him, anyway.

“But you were dating him at some point, right?” interjected Roger Davies. Why wouldn’t they stop? Oliver wanted to scream. 

“You know what? Yes. Percy and I dated in our seventh year at Hogwarts. For a very brief period of time. Right after he broke up with Penelope Clearwater. And then we split up again because, during his self-discovery trip, he found out that he wasn’t into blokes, and  _ I _ very much  _ was _ . And now Percy is my best friend, whom I still like to spend time with, but we’re  _ not _ dating.”

He didn’t tell them about how he was eighty per cent certain that Penelope Clearwater had been Rita’s “trusty source” on that juicy piece of gossip, or how scared he’d been that his little quarrel with that spiteful hack could actually negatively impact Percy’s career. It wasn’t any of their bloody business. None of this was. 

“So, you’re gay?” Slater looked somewhat disappointed, and - right, he was  _ so  _ over this. 

“Yeah. And now I’m going to eat my lunch.” Oliver said, voice even and unwavering, and returned his focus to finishing his omelette, ignoring any further questions and comments the general audience threw at him.

Flint wasn’t looking at him anymore - indeed, he appeared way more interested in an insect that had found his way into his glass.  _ Good _ . 

“I think that was the most I’ve ever heard you refer to someone by their first name,” Gareth said warmly, hand a solid weight on Oliver’s back in a staunch show of support. 

“Well, I’ve known Percy Weasley for, what, fourteen years now? We basically grew up together.” 

“You have to be at least a level seven friend to unlock first name privileges. I’m still working hard on it,” Siobhán sounded terribly, terribly fond.

“You’re telling  _ me _ ? I got him drunk on Firewhiskey, and it was still all Vosper this and Vosper that!” If he didn’t know him any better, Oliver would say Gareth was offended.

“Listen, both of you,” Oliver waited until he had their undivided attention, then continued. “It’s not that I don’t consider you close friends, or anything dumb like that. But you’re my co-workers! Vosper, you’re basically my superior! This is a habit I picked up when I started playing Quidditch professionally, and I’m not looking to kick it.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Sounds pretty dumb to me.” Gareth was shaking his head at him in a perfect imitation of the disappointed parent. The corners of his mouth were twitching though which gave Oliver the impression that he wasn’t really bothered. 

“I’ll just keep switching between ‘Wood’ and ‘Oliver’. Eventually, he’ll slip up.” Really, Siobhán came across as a lot more determined than she had any right to be.

* * *

When lunch concluded without any further interruption, and the last few stragglers returned from their bathroom breaks, Gareth finally asked them to return to the stadium.

The second Oliver stepped into the locker room, his fingers started itching for his broom. Or maybe they had been the entire time, and he’d simply been too distracted to notice. 

Oliver Wood too distracted to think about flying - his old Gryffindor team would accuse him of being an impostor.

He opened his locker and pulled out the set of iconic red and white Quidditch robes, and, overwhelmed for a short instant, let himself feel the soft fabric running between his fingers, trace the three golden dragons embroidered on the front. 

This was what he’d worked towards all these years, these robes symbolised twenty years of passion and hard work, of victory and defeat - the highest highs and the lowest lows. 

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Dean Thomas breathed. The younger man was standing in front of the locker to Oliver’s left, holding the robes against his chest as if to confirm that they’d fit, that these were really his. 

Oliver didn’t reply. There weren’t any words he felt could encapsulate all the emotions he was experiencing right now. 

They changed in silence, and if anyone looked at him weird because of his confession at lunch, he was far too absorbed in the moment to notice. 

* * *

Once they were all dressed and standing on the pitch, faces solemn and brooms clutched tightly, Gareth announced that he would split them into three random groups.

“Today’s practice is going to be all about formations. I want you to really get a feel for your teammates’ speed and style. Verbal communication is to be kept to a minimum, this isn’t a talking exercise. You’re going to be flying on a broom at high altitudes, conversations shouldn’t be possible anyway.” 

As luck would have it, Oliver ended up in the same group as Flint. While he tried very hard not to stare (and succeeded for the most part), it was undeniable that the robes complimented Flint’s body very well. The way he moved made it seem like he’d always expected to wear them one day, dragons on his broad chest glinting in the July sun.

When Flint caught Slater looking, he gave her one of his trademark wolfish grins and looked back until she turned away, blushing. 

Oliver shook his head and got on his broom, the time for distraction had passed.

* * *

Describing the sensation of flight to his mother had never been difficult for him. It was like shaking off a weight, like vaulting an insurmountable barrier. The walls fell away, and there was nothing but him and the wind. There was no room for fear in the air, not when there was so much freedom that it settled in his lungs and expanded, spread all the way to the tips of his fingers. 

No longer did he feel limited by obligations and expectations, everything seemed so trivial in comparison to the boundless space opening up before him. All that mattered was climbing higher, flying faster.

Pinned to his fridge at home was an old newspaper clipping, some ridiculous article that had been published in  _ The Quibbler  _ ages ago, about a wizard that claimed to have flown to the moon on a Cleansweep broom. It was nonsense, of course, but Oliver appreciated the romantic notion behind it. 

And then there was Quidditch. Quidditch added a whole different level to flying. It sharpened his instincts, caught and held his focus like nothing else. 

Truly, there was no better feeling than the triumph he experienced when an opposing Chaser executed a throw that seemed impossible to hold and yet ended up safely in Oliver’s hands, as he watched the confidence on the Chaser’s face slowly die away - it satisfied something vicious in him, whetted his competitive edge. 

He’d started out playing pick-up games with other kids his age that belonged to the magical community of his county, Herefordshire, then gone on to play for Gryffindor, and later got signed by Puddlemere United. The requirements for skill, resilience and endurance had grown with every additional level, and each brought with it new challenges, more difficult obstacles a player had to overcome. 

Now that he’d finally been given a shot to qualify for Quidditch games on the international stage, to play with the very best, he was hungrier than ever for victory, but also for the chance at self-improvement. Facing stronger opponents offered the highest possibility for personal growth, or so his mother had taught him.

* * *

Without exception, all players present were owners of at least one Firebolt, since it was industry-standard and no team that participated in the British and Irish Quidditch League wanted to be accused of losing a match because they were too cheap to invest the money needed for competitive equipment.

Gareth had them fly a few rounds around the pitch to warm up, then assigned each group a different formation they were to execute. 

The three Seekers were ordered to lead their respective groups, as their slighter bodies allowed them to be faster, due to the lower amount of wind resistance.

This added a further layer of difficulty, as the formations were to stay together under any circumstances, which meant the Seekers had to keep their speed in check so the rest could match their pace. Remaining group members had to arrange themselves according to their body mass, with the tallest, broadest players bringing up the rear.

Oliver and Flint were by far the tallest players of their group (as well as roughly the same size), so they were left to settle the question of who would function as the tail end amongst themselves. 

Flint looked like someone had reached into a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, carefully selected a chilli-flavoured one, and then forced him to swallow it, so Oliver decided to act his age and be the bigger person, no matter how much it pained him.

“You pick whichever spot you want, I’ll take what’s left, okay?” he said, putting as much goodwill into the suggestion as he was capable of - which wasn’t a lot. 

Grey eyes seized him up as Flint seemed to ponder over his words, presumably looking to find fault in them. Because if nothing else, Flint could be a contrary wanker.

When he received no answer or indication that Flint had made a decision, Oliver sighed and tightened his hold on his broomstick. “Know what? We don’t have all day, so I’ll take last.”

At that, Flint snorted. “Don’t trust me to watch your back, now, do you? Fine. Try to keep up.” And he flew off to join the formation, not turning back to see whether Oliver was following him. 

Oliver took up his position, determined to make the most of his task, despite the deeply unsettling feeling in his stomach. Talking to Flint had left a sour taste in his mouth, and he hated it.

* * *

Their first try ended in a total disaster - Parish, their designated leader, was a selfish flyer with little regard for the concerns of his group members. Oliver caught him watching Sampson and Campbell more than once, accelerating when he got the impression that they were faster than him, and abruptly changing directions without any kind of heads-up. 

Robinson and Morgan, who were supposed to fly side-by-side in the second position, couldn’t agree on a tempo, and the two players behind them (Montrose Beater Noboru Hawkins and Kenmare Beater Diana Odell) had almost crashed into each other twice. Flint and Oliver, well. They had kept their distance as much as possible.

From what Oliver was able to observe, neither of the other two groups were faring much better: Campbell was outright arguing with at least three of the six people behind him, and Sampson had somehow managed to completely shake her group in some kind of blind speeding frenzy. 

After what felt like hours, but had in all likelihood not been more than half of one, Gareth apparently decided to be merciful and end their misery - for the time being.

He’d been part of Sampson’s group, flying just ahead of Siobhán and Harrington who made up the rear, and Oliver had witnessed him shake his head in utter disbelief more than once.

“Thank you for this artful demonstration of why we’re doing this exercise in the first place,” he greeted them when they landed in a wide circle around him.

“Now, what we are going to do is mix up the process a bit: each group will have the entire pitch to themselves, the other two will be watching from the ground and provide feedback - constructive feedback!” he amended almost immediately. 

It was a sign of their collective professionality that nobody groaned or complained.

They devoted another four hours to the arduous task of attempting to fly in functional formations, and although there were visible improvements, no group was awarded a flawless rating. 

When Gareth dismissed them to dinner with the promise that they’d come back to this at a later time, it was to an atmosphere of palpable relief. Everybody looked exhausted, and they made their way to the showers quickly and quietly.

* * *

The showers were just as glorious as they had appeared at first glance, and Oliver almost sobbed with gratitude when the warm water finally helped relax his tense muscles. He hadn’t even realised how much he had needed this. As he watched the perfectly pressurized jet wash the soapy bubbles down the drain, Oliver wondered whether he would be able to sleep tonight.

He expected dinner to be an unremarkable affair, what with all of them hungry and looking forward to bed. 

This expectation, however, was shattered when Marcus Flint dropped down on the fourth chair at the table Oliver shared with Gareth and Valmai Morgan.

Flint was the last of the players to enter the cafeteria, and his arrival at their table interrupted Morgan’s enthusiastic reminiscing about her late grandmother’s traditional Welsh food. 

Oliver quietly cursed his rotten luck. He felt a sudden and fierce longing for the years they had chosen to ignore each other, wishing for distance yet despising himself for it. 

Flint’s mere presence threw him off his emotional balance.

“Marcus, nice of you to join us,” Gareth greeted him, face open and welcoming. Oliver hadn’t known they were on a first-name basis. 

“Well,” Flint gestured towards the remaining tables, “it was either you three or sitting by myself, and I don’t consider myself quite reclusive enough to pull that off.” 

“You can sit with us, as long as you don’t touch the shrimp pasta. That one’s mine.” Morgan said and pulled the bowl closer to her. Her deadpan demeanour made it impossible to tell if she was joking or not. 

“Oh, don’t worry, Morgan. I’m more of a fan of bolognese anyway, it’s got meat and all.” 

There was a minimum of two cheap digs in there somewhere, but Oliver decided he was better off leaving the matter well enough alone. 

Instead, he went back to wrestle with his spaghetti, finally managing to convince some of them to stay on his fork so he could devour them. Farfalle would have been the safer option, though hindsight was 20/20 and by this point, he was almost convinced that the cook had somehow charmed the noodles. 

“Hey Wood, those spaghetti any good?” The direct question shook him somewhat, although he thought he did a decent job of preventing it from showing.

“Depends. If you enjoy a challenge, I’d say go for it,” he replied, shrugging, and took a sip of his Gillywater. Not even the recalcitrant spaghetti could hold a candle to how  _ challenging  _ it was to keep his disdain for Flint in check. 

The next few minutes passed relatively uneventful, as the food kept them busy (and in Oliver and Flint’s cases, required a considerable amount of concentration). Still, he caught himself stealing glances at Flint more than once, growing more irritated with each time as he mourned his lacking self-control. 

Flint was wearing a tight grey sweatshirt, and the offending garment did a terrific job showing off his broad shoulders and muscular arms. 

Beyond the obvious being into blokes thing, Oliver had never devoted any serious time to figure out what his type was since Quidditch ranked so much higher in his priorities than dating. Looking at Flint now, he was forced to admit that the whole athlete look was definitely doing it for him, though. Or maybe it was because of Flint that he found it attractive. Either way, his body was traitorous and weak, and he was ready for dinner to end.

When he was done fighting his plate of spaghetti alfredo for dominance and had finished off the last remaining stragglers in a final clash of wills, Oliver decided he would reward himself with some salad to round out the meal.

Except, when he reached for the bowl holding the tomato salad, his hand brushed Flint’s, who apparently had had the same idea. Oliver pulled his hand away like he’d been burned, like the spark he’d felt touching Flint’s bare skin was the charge of a live wire.

He struggled to keep the embarrassed flush off his face and stammered his way through an awkward apology. The look Flint gave him was unreadable.

Morgan didn’t seem to have noticed the exchange, but Gareth was watching Oliver with his eyebrows raised, and he just  _ knew  _ that an explanation would be required later. 

To make matters worse, Oliver had never been a particular gifted liar (his Hogwarts professors had definitely enjoyed hauling him over the coals for his poor excuses when his obsession with Quidditch had caused him to forget about yet another due essay) so unless Gareth had mercy on him, he’d have to come clean about the nature of his relationship (or rather non-relationship) with Flint, something he was  _ not  _ looking forward to.

His fears appeared to come true when Gareth took him aside later after most of the players had already left and Oliver was still nursing his Gillywater, waiting for the interrogation that was sure to follow. 

“Look, Oliver - I don’t know what’s going on between you and Marcus, but I need you to fix it. This isn’t like Harrington’s awful reading comprehension or Parish’s big mouth, I can’t just let this slide. If you’re going to be out on the pitch together, I need the team working tighter than the security at Gringotts.” Gareth stood with his arms on his hips, watching him intently.

Oliver nodded in acknowledgement. “Yeah, I get that, and I promise it won’t affect Quidditch in any way.”

“You  _ promise _ ? To be honest, after dinner today, I don’t think you can hand out guarantees like that. What even brought this on? Please don’t tell me you two managed to uphold your old schoolyard rivalry for this long,” he shook his head like he was unable to wrap his head around an idea so patently ridiculous. 

“That’s really not it, I swear. It’s - kind of hard to explain. I’d rather not go into details.” He was painfully aware of how stupid he sounded and that there was a chance he was hurting Gareth’s feelings by locking him out, but if he had to deal with this, he was going to do it his way.

“Is it one of those ‘sexual tension with your ex-boyfriend’ conflicts? Because let me tell you-” 

Gareth’s emphatic speech was interrupted by Oliver's surprised laughter. He was making a significant effort not to let three years of built-up bitterness seep through, though he wasn’t entirely sure of his success. 

“Believe me, Vosper, Flint and I never dated. I’m not even sure he fancies men.” Close enough to the truth for Oliver to get away with, yet not anywhere near the full story. 

“We’re just two very different people with vastly differing ideals. But I’ll try to find some common ground, you’ve got my word.”

“You don’t have to become best friends or anything. Find a way to work together, that’s all I’m asking. I’ll talk to Marcus about this as well. Now go to bed, you look exhausted.” 

While Gareth seemed a little doubtful, he had let Oliver off the hook easily enough, the huge yawn that escaped him as he bid Oliver goodnight indicating that he was just as tired, if not more. 

* * *

Oliver stubbornly stuck to scaling the staircase on foot. Exhaustion was not an excuse to forego a good cardio exercise, not in his opinion, anyway. 

Still, when he finally laid in bed, teeth brushed, and magical lanterns extinguished, Oliver struggled to fall asleep. He’d expected this to happen, what with Flint being here and all the excitement the first day had brought.

It was futile to think about what life would be like if he’d never met Flint, but he had wasted a fair amount of time wondering how things would have turned out if he’d never known him as anything more than the hyper-competitive Quidditch captain of Slytherin House with a penchant for nasty fouls. 

* * *

_ Oliver is sixteen years old, almost exactly a year from graduating Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the thrice-damned Chamber of Secrets has absolutely ruined his aspirations of winning the Quidditch House Cup. For the second year in a row, he’s unable to claim it, despite the fact that he knows he’s fielding the best team the school has to offer right now.  _

_ It’s a cold night in March, the temperature almost low enough to be freezing, and he’s sitting outside, high up on the Astronomy Tower, the small magic fire trapped in a jar by his side an idea he’d gotten from watching Harry’s friend Hermione Granger.  _

_ He comes up here regularly, to think, to plan, and sometimes just to be alone.  _

_ Astronomy is his best subject - right after Charms, that is, and just ahead of Herbology,  _ thanks dad _ \- and if professional Quidditch doesn’t work out, he’s pretty sure he’s going to try and look for a job in that field, just to find an excuse to look up at the stars more, to feel close to the sky.  _

_ He’d suggested as much during Careers Advice last year, pleasantly surprising Professor McGonagall, who had apparently not expected him to name career paths beyond professional Quidditch player.  _

_ Oliver hates entertaining the possibility that he won’t be playing League Quidditch after school, but his dad had wanted him to think of a back-up plan, just in case. And if fate and McGonagall keep intervening with his Cup chances, that back-up plan might just become a reality.  _

_ So now he’s up here, clinging to his Quidditch playbook, and staring up at the cloudless firmament above him, hoping for some kind of miracle, even though his mum keeps telling him that he doesn’t need hope when he has talent, ambition, and hard work. _

“ _ Aren’t you afraid the heir will get you if you hang out here all by yourself, Wood? I’m pretty certain they’d make an exception for you, being a dirty Gryffindor and all.” _

_ The loud, scoffing voice belongs to none other than Slytherin captain Marcus Flint, and Oliver quietly mourns his undisturbed peace. _

_ _

_ Contrary to popular belief, Oliver and Flint don’t really interact much outside their confrontations on the pitch and during captain’s meetings. There is the occasional shove or insult in the halls when they meet, but Flint’s a year ahead of him academically, so there aren’t too many other points of contact.  _

_ “What would it matter if they did? Quidditch is cancelled, I can’t practice, I can’t win the Cup, I’m not even allowed to  _ fly _ , for Merlin’s sake!” He bites down on his lip almost immediately, stifling the flood of unsavoury words that’s about to leave his mouth if he doesn’t put a stop to it.  _

_ “So what, sneak out on the pitch then if you miss it that badly. If you can make it up here undetected, the pitch shouldn’t be that diffic-” Oliver cuts him off, snorting. _

_ “You think I haven’t  _ tried? _ McGonagall said the next time she catches me, she will take one-hundred House Points from Gryffindor and put me in detention for so long, I won’t be able to compete in next year’s games either.” _

_ Flint laughs, the bastard, and Oliver has half a mind to punch him in the face - maybe  _ that  _ would fix his crooked teeth - but the sound is so unexpectedly genuine - a bout of raucous, unrestrained laughter - that it halts him in his tracks.  _

_ “Aww, brave little Gryffindor is afraid of his big bad Head of House, that’s so pathetic, it’s almost cute.” Flint keeps laughing, and Oliver sulks. There is nothing cute about his anger.  _

_ “It wouldn’t matter anyway, you know since the Cup is going to go to Slytherin next year.” _

_ “What do you care, Flint? You’re graduating in June, it’s not like you’ll even be here,” he shoots back. The laughter abruptly subsides, and the atmosphere grows oddly quiet.  _

_ “Thing is, Wood-” and here Flint drops down on the ground next to him, scooting closer to the flickering jar, “I would be graduating, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m most likely going to fail at least one of my N.E.W.T.s.” _

_ And that’s when Oliver realises that Flint didn’t come up here to make fun of him - how could he, after all, it’s not common knowledge that Oliver frequents the place - that he probably came in search of solitude, as well.  _

_ Suddenly, there’s this fragile connection between them Oliver doesn’t know what to do with, an uncanny similarity tying them together, common ground between a Slytherin and a Gryffindor in this tiny space towering above the main building of the castle, where they’re barely more than strangers in the night.  _

_ Flint must sense it, too, because he’s turned to look at Oliver, and when their gazes meet, Oliver feels  _ seen  _ in a way that he’s not eloquent enough to put into words. _

_ He doesn’t say anything, so the Slytherin continues on, explaining himself. “I’m horrible at Conjuration, and McGonagall has already made countless insinuations that it’s going to be the main focus of this year’s exam. Listen, I could vanish Filch’s ugly excuse for a cat from his fucking head if I wanted, and he’d be none the wiser. Conjuration is just… I can’t get a real grasp on it.”  _

_ Oliver doesn’t really feel qualified to give Flint advice since his passing grade in the Transfiguration O.W.L exam had been a very close call indeed. Thankfully, Percy excels at it, though, and he’s given Oliver some pointers. _

_ “Percy Weasley told me that it helps if you can really envision the object you’re conjuring,” he says, voice low and cautious in an effort to make it clear that he’s not trying to be condescending.  _

_ Flint waves him off, but the gesture seems more resigned than anything. “Higgs told me the exact same thing. Guess I lack in the imagination department, then. Sadly, my parents won’t let me graduate without passing my N.E.W.T.s, so I’ll be here for another year, making your life hell on the Quidditch pitch.”  _

_ The grin he gives Oliver is slightly predatory, and there’s that same old competitive spirit again, the one thing that makes him respect the older boy as a rival, in spite of the methods Flint lowers himself and his team to in order to win.  _

_ “Who knows, maybe you’ll get tired of cheating eventually,” Oliver grins back, confidence somehow restored. He’s going to do it, he’s going to make Gryffindor win the Cup next year, and he’s going to accomplish it right in front of Flint’s smug face. _

_ “Yeah, and maybe you’ll get tired of being a boring goody-two-shoes Gryffindor.” There’s no real malice in the quip, it’s routine between them, and it restores a sense of comfort somewhere deep in Oliver’s stomach he hadn’t noticed was missing in the first place. _

_ “Dream on,” he replies, refusing to let Flint have the last word and then they’re just sitting there, high up on the Tower, in the little circle illuminated by the jar, surrounded by the vast darkness of the night sky and the thick silence of an unspoken mutual agreement only occasionally interrupted by eerie noises coming from the direction of the Forbidden Forest.  _

* * *

Come summer and the end of the year ceremony, the mystery of the Chamber had been solved, Flint had failed his N.E.W.T. in Transfiguration and Oliver had finally gotten to take out his broom for more than a quick maintenance with his Broomstick Servicing Kit, but they’d never met on the Astronomy Tower again. 

During his seventh year, his rivalry with Flint had become more intensive, since they had spent a lot more time together in their shared classes (Charms, Transfiguration, and Herbology) leading to the odd altercation here and there. 

They had ended up in the hospital wing exactly once, Oliver with a nice patch of scales on his right arm and Flint unable to stop speaking in limericks. After that, Snape and McGonagall had given both of them a stern talking-to about the limits of competitiveness and the importance of being a role model. Thinly veiled threats about consequences had, of course, been implied.

Their rivalry had eventually reached its climax with the arrival of the final match for the Quidditch House Cup, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, which Gryffindor had won with enough of an advantage to take the Cup home. 

Oliver had been over the moon, proud of his team and what they had accomplished. To his surprise, Flint had hunted him down on the following day and congratulated him with a firm handshake and a punch to the shoulder. It had been serious too, no attempts to curse him or knock his lights out, just a short, genuine exchange.

Then they had graduated, and Oliver hadn’t really expected to ever hear from Marcus Flint again. 

Except. Roughly a month after he got picked up by Puddlemere United’s reserve, he had started hearing rumours about the Falmouth Falcon’s new Chaser. 

Tall, broad-shouldered, front teeth like a troll had smashed them out then desperately tried to put them back in the right order, plays so violent the captain of the Falcons had allegedly never even hesitated to give him a place on the starting line-up - all of these were descriptors used to talk about one Marcus Flint. No mention of his sharp grey eyes that could dissect the strategy behind a Chaser formation in seconds, or the vicious fighting spirit that kept him from ever backing down. 

And then, Flint had started writing him. They’d been short notes at first, remarks on a shitty play another team had made, the form of different players, criticism of a ref’s bad call - and they had always been delivered by the same grey barred owl. 

Oliver had replied in a similar fashion, agreeing or disagreeing with whatever assessment or analysis Flint had presented, then giving his own evaluation of events. 

The notes had grown longer and longer, gaining in structure what they lost in casual, awkward animosity until one could consider them actual letters. Flint’s writing style had undergone a lot of changes as well, with every month he’d spent as part of the Falcon’s team, his vocabulary had become increasingly vulgar. Oliver hadn’t really minded. He’d never had a pen pal before, and he supposed it had to be somewhat like this. 

Though he’d never admit it, he had quite enjoyed their written communication. They hadn’t seen each other in person in a long time, but the number of letters they had exchanged far exceeded whatever conversations they’d ever had at Hogwarts. He had felt like he actually knew Flint now, like they were closer, the way they’d been that one night atop the Astronomy Tower. 

And then Oliver had gotten called up to the first string, had become part of Puddlemere’s main team in 1996, after fan-favourite Keeper Howard Ridley retired and during the same season which saw Marcus Flint join the Appleby Arrows for the substantial transfer fee of five hundred seventy-five Galleons (as reported by the  _ Daily Prophet _ ). 

As far as Oliver had been concerned, the money had obviously been well spent - he’d watched Flint hone his instincts and steadily improve with every game, had seen his game sense evolve in real-time. He’d grown into a formidable opponent, and Oliver had wanted nothing more than to see how they measured up against each other now.

The thing was, Flint had never so much as hinted at being interested in the Arrows in  _ any  _ of his letters (Oliver had gone back to reread every single one of them, just to be sure).

So while the news had excited him, he’d also been somewhat miffed. Hadn’t they become something like friends in these last couple of years? Had Flint not thought it worth mentioning to Oliver? 

His bad mood had lasted exactly one day because, on the following morning, the barred owl brought him a tiny note that only had one sentence scrawled on it: 

_ Guess I got tired of cheating after all. _

Really, how had Oliver been supposed not to fall in love?

They had kept up their correspondence until late summer in 1997. Leading up to that, their teams had played each other a total of six times, four across the regular seasons and twice in the 1996 playoffs, though neither had gone on to win the League. 

When the “new” Ministry under Thicknesse’s (Voldemort’s) control had cancelled the remainder of the season in 1997 with no information on a potential continuation, the score had been 4-2 with Puddlemere having come out ahead in the most recent clash in June. 

Flint had turned into a fearsome adversary on the pitch. Where he’d been a diamond in the rough during his Falmouth days - reckless, indomitable and unpredictable - he was now the crown jewel of Appleby’s offence. He’d kept that same unpredictability and added a layer of maturity to it, he’d become a team player who weighed his teammates’ potential against his own and found it equally worthy of consideration. His playstyle was still risky, he didn’t shy away from contact - far from it - but gone was the clumsy, selfish antagonism that had marked much of his tenure as Slytherin’s captain. 

Oliver had used the two years he was part of Puddlemere’s reserves to work on his technique, to push his body to its limits. He’d trained hard to iron out the mistakes he had been most prone to making. Distinctly visible were the improvements to his judgement and concentration, he fell for faints far less often than he had before when blind instinct had been his baseline for decision-making. He’d gotten to a point where his observational skills came in far more handy than a mere gut reaction. 

Their very first match against each other had been something Oliver had looked forward to for weeks. Even his sleeping schedule had suffered to a point, though he’d eventually gotten it under control enough for it not to matter come match day. 

Both teams had played to the very best of their abilities, so when Appleby had ended up winning, there hadn’t been a lot to regret on Puddlemere’s side. Their Beaters had been reliable, their Chasers’ aim true and Oliver had kept Appleby’s score low - their Seeker just hadn’t managed to react in time to prevent his Appleby counterpart from catching the Snitch. Tough luck. 

After the game was over, when all was said and done, he’d gone to shake Flint’s hand and complimented him on his play. If their touch had lingered a little longer than was generally considered appropriate between platonic pen pals, then, well. Neither of them had commented on it. 

They didn’t meet up and hang out, they didn’t see each other at all outside of matches. All of their interaction had remained strictly limited to the boundaries of their written correspondence. Granted, the contents of said letters had changed quite a bit from their original subject matter and probably contained enough carefully hidden longing to make a Hungarian Horntail blush, but neither had been willing to take the first step. 

Oliver had been fully aware of his feelings for Flint by that point, and he’d also been pretty certain that Flint was likewise interested, though none of them had ever stated any of this explicitly. He hadn’t felt the need to rush this, convinced that it would be fine to let their relationship develop “organically” (whatever the hell that meant) as it had done since they had first laid eyes on each other on a particularly windy Tuesday morning on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch all those years ago. 

In the end, they’d probably both just been too afraid to appear vulnerable. 

And then, just as suddenly as they had started, the letters had stopped. July had turned to August, the Ministry had fallen, the League had gotten cancelled, and Marcus Flint had stopped replying to Oliver Wood’s messages. 

Around the same time, Marcellus and Valeria Flint had received promotions to high positions within Thicknesse’s new cabinet, spelling out their loyalty in bright red block letters to anyone naive enough to not have seen this coming. 

Oliver remembered the bitter taste in his mouth when the  _ Prophet  _ had published a special edition on the shiny new Minister and all his cronies. Remembered clinging to the cool porcelain of his toilet bowl and emptying the entire contents of his stomach, heaving until the pain in his body was worse than the one in his head. Remembered the smell of burning paper in the early autumn heat.

Marcus Flint had vanished from Oliver’s life like a banished spectre, leaving behind nothing but charred embers and memories that had haunted Oliver whenever he’d let his mind wander. 

Oliver had asked around for a while, clinging to the pathetic shreds of his hope with something he had refused to call desperation.

It had been pointless. All kinds of people had disappeared every day; lists with the names of those fortunate enough to still have someone around who reported them as missing had been passed around in every last refuge of the magical community in Britain, they had filled shop windows and littered streets.

At night, he had been tortured by nightmares of Flint in a black cape. A vision of pale skin in a shroud of obsidian darkness, broad grin a cruel smear across his proud features, eyes devoid of mercy as he raised his wand, only to point it at him. 

Sometimes, Oliver’s face had been replaced by the face of a person close to him - his mother and father, Percy, his old Gryffindor team. Those had been the dreams he had dreaded the most. 

He had never been scared of Flint, not even as a tiny first-year, and logically, he knew that he hadn’t been scared of him then, either. But he’d been afraid of what Flint might have become, and he’d hated every second of it. 

Oliver had said goodbye to his parents and joined what was left of the Order on a cloudy October night, determined to make a difference in the war, no matter how little and inconsequential. If that meant putting his life on the line so Harry Potter could end the reign of Voldemort once and for all, then so be it.

His family had been as safe as possible under the prevailing circumstances, Quidditch had been gone, and a large part of his friends had joined the resistance along with him - there’d been nothing left to hold him back. And if he had constantly worried that one of the many hooded strangers he duelled would turn out to be Flint, then. Well. No one except him had needed to know. 

Ironically, a big portion of what he had done for the Order involved disappearing people. As someone who had a particular gift for defensive magic, he had spent many a night smuggling dissidents, refugees or otherwise endangered citizens to secure locations, oftentimes operating right under the enemy’s nose (although the Weasley twins had kept on reminding him that Voldemort didn’t really have a lot going on nose-wise).

Then had come the Battle of Hogwarts, and along with it experiences that had wrecked him emotionally, had humbled him, changed him as a person. Fred’s death had been painful in a lot of ways, and the loss had left him unbalanced and feeling bereft. 

Watching the grief seep from George’s eyes like blood from an open wound had made him feel small and helpless, as though nothing he could do would ever suffice, would ever measure up to what had already been sacrificed to win this war.

Helping Neville Longbottom carry the bodies during the ceasefire was something he’d been able to do, a burden he could shoulder, so others didn’t have to. 

Fighting Death Eaters had almost been easier, not because they’d been weak opponents that posed no threat - it had merely become routine, an old familiar dance you knew all the steps to. 

When he’d been fighting, there had been no feeling involved, he hadn’t had to think about what there was to lose and what had already been lost, he’d only had to focus on his wand and the enemy in front of him. Blocking, attacking, reflexively shielding an ally next to him - none of this had been new to him. 

And when everything had finally been over, he’d stood - motionless, unseeing, overwhelmed by the flood of impressions that had washed over him. 

When Alicia, Katie and Angelina had found him, he’d been standing on the destroyed Quidditch pitch, wand clutched tightly in his right fist, looking up at the sky like it held all the answers to the questions he had never dared to ask. They hadn't said anything, just hugged him, holding on to Oliver and each other for a while, breathing occasionally interrupted by a harsh sob, though he couldn’t say who had cried. Maybe he had, maybe they all had, from relief, exhaustion, bereavement. 

Flint hadn’t been at Hogwarts - at least Oliver hadn’t seen him. His body hadn’t lain among the dead of either side, he hadn’t been celebrating or grieving with the victors or waiting for his judgement with the defeated. 

However, it was possible that he had fled before the end of the battle (after all, Flint was far from stupid) and if that had been the case, then he’d likely never find out. Not that he was sure he really wanted to, anyway. Flint had been gone for almost a year now, Oliver had thought it pretty clear that whatever Flint was up to, it wasn’t going to involve him. 

To literally everyone’s surprise, the 1998 Quidditch World Cup had in fact taken place. Under Shacklebolt, the Ministry had reverted the ban on Quidditch at the beginning of June 1998, deeming it safe now that the danger had been taken care of. 

There had been plans to play out the remaining games of the cancelled season as soon as the League teams were able to compete again, but the World Cup had been regarded as more important, so the season had officially ended on the first of August, with Appleby taking home the title. 

Sadly, England, Wales and Scotland had gotten eliminated in the group stages, Northern Ireland never qualified in the first place, and Ireland had lost to eventual Cup winners Malawi during Quarterfinals. None of the British and Irish players had returned to their teams with any particular claims to glory and fame (except for Scottish Keeper Domhnall McGregor maybe, who’d gotten so drunk on French Fairy Wine, he’d started flirting with the Japanese mascot - a mostly harmless Kappa - and promptly gotten fined the hefty sum of nine hundred Galleons ). 

England’s defeat had also brought with it the retirement of team captain Keaton Flitney, and the subsequent appointment of his successor, Gareth Vosper. Many critics had reacted negatively to this sequence of events, first and foremost Keaton Flitney himself. 

Flitney had been on the team with Gareth’s brother Edric and insinuated that said brother was close with multiple Committee members, thus invalidating Gareth’s claim to the captaincy. When Gareth had personally called him out to suggest a more qualified candidate, however, Flitney had rescinded his comments and apologised. 

With the return of Quidditch, Marcus Flint had suddenly reappeared, stepping onto the pitch in his blue Appleby robes, Firebolt in hand, smiling for all the world like nothing had happened.

* * *

_ To Oliver, it feels like a punch to the gut. Flint has obviously been safe all this time, doing fine, not a hair out of place. All things considered, this shouldn’t come as a surprise.  _

_ He feels confirmed in his suspicion that Flint had stepped in his family’s footsteps, had chosen to follow a dark, ugly path.  _

_ A Dark Mark is likely hidden under the sleeves of his robe, and if he is half as clever as Oliver assumes, probably behind a Concealment Spell as well. In this post-war world, the side Flint has picked holds no power anymore, a simple certainty that fills Oliver with grim satisfaction.  _

_ When the game ends 190 - 30 in Puddlemere’s favour, he struggles with the part of himself that yearns to go over to Flint, to say hello and shake his hand, feel his touch after he had been missing from Oliver’s life for so many months. _

_ _

_ Another part of him wants to know whether he was right and Flint had indeed counted himself among the Death Eaters, wants to gain clarity in order to finish moving on and help his healing process.  _

_ But before his inner eye, he sees the faces of the fallen he had carried at Hogwarts, the scared expressions of every single person he had helped smuggle to safety, the look on his mother’s face as they said goodbye, a reunion uncertain.  _

_ Oliver Wood decides right then - standing on the pitch of the Bodmin Moor Millenium Stadium with Puddlemere’s fans chanting their famous team anthem in the background - that he doesn’t want to be brave anymore. He isn’t going to confront Flint, he isn’t going to acknowledge his existence at all. In the future, he will treat him as just another Quidditch opponent, nothing more, nothing less.  _

_ _

_ And he walks away, a lump in his throat and a stabbing pain in his heart, walks right off the pitch and down the hallway towards the locker rooms, ignoring Flint’s loud voice as he calls after him, “Hey, Wood, wait up-”, never once looking back.  _

_ A hand grabs his left arm and forcibly turns him around. He and Flint are almost precisely the same height, so he is in no way intimidated. Flint looks at him, grey eyes sharp and questioning, holding on with a vice-like grip. Oliver tries to shake him off, to no avail.  _

_ “Back off, Flint!” he barks, voice sounding strange even to his own ears, “I have nothing more to say to you,” and with the battle-hardened ease of a veteran, he pulls his wand and directs it right at Flint’s Adam’s apple. _

_ Flint’s expression changes from scrutiny to shock and then from shock to anger in a blink, features marred by a nasty snarl. He lets go of Oliver as though he’s been burned.  _

_ “Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be? I should have guessed.” And then he’s gone, storming back in the other direction, bright blue robes billowing behind him.  _

_ If Oliver’s eyes burn with unshed tears, well. Healing takes time, and the wound Flint left - while not life-threatening - runs deep, barely formed scar tissue torn open again. _

* * *

Their last confrontation happened two years ago. Since then, they hadn’t spoken again until now. Until the tryouts. 

_ And now Vosper wants us to “get along”. Like I can just forget any of that.  _

If there was one thing he had learnt after the Battle of Hogwarts, it was compartmentalisation. He’d spent two years perfecting it, shoving memories into mental drawers and locking them there, only to be inspected in his weaker moments.

His mother’s comments about his love life (or lack thereof) had started to unravel what was a carefully constructed safety net consisting of interconnected threads woven from repression and self-denial, and facing Flint had straight-up torched its remains. 

Now, he was forced to re-examine his feelings for the Chaser. Something still connected them, that much was clear. He didn’t like how the old regret came creeping up on him, wrapped tightly around his throat and stole his breath. He wasn’t prepared for the images rising in his mind, visions of what he  _ wanted _ , impressions of fantasies he’d entertained once upon a time. 

The conflicting emotions warring in his head were robbing him of every chance of sleep; Oliver hated Flint for a lot of things - existing mostly - and he hated himself for every weak moment, every missed opportunity. He hated the distance between them and simultaneously craved it, felt haunted and protected by the invisible line in the sand. His stupid brain couldn’t figure out whether the urge to knock Flint on his arse was stronger than his need to pin him to the nearest wall and kiss him.

Eventually, he got sick of tossing and turning, of staring up at the dark ceiling, sleepless yet exhausted. Deciding his future self could deal with the shame and self-hate, he shoved his right hand down his boxers and wrapped it around his cock. Oliver came to thoughts of Flint’s dirty victory smirk and strong hands touching his skin, the post-orgasmic haze fulfilling its purpose and putting him into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

* * *

His circadian rhythm roused him around six, and he woke up feeling rested and revitalized, even though he couldn’t have slept for more than four hours. 

He figured the bed was most likely enchanted with some kind of sleep-enhancement spell and thanked his lucky stars for that. Practice without proper rest was doable but more often than not extremely wearisome, it took a toll on his focus and mental resilience, made him impatient and unpleasant to be around. 

Oliver went to freshen up in the bathroom, then pulled his work-out clothing from his luggage and got dressed in record time; he was eager to go on his morning run. 

_ Nothing better than some exercise to clear your head. _

The weather conditions were ideal, a bright blue, unclouded sky greeting him when he stepped outside. It made him wonder whether someone had intentionally messed with meteorological magic again. Percy had come to him to complain, the last time that had happened - apparently, a couple of small tornados in Scotland had kept most Ministry Departments occupied for an entire afternoon, effectively shutting down business until the matter had been dealt with. 

His path led him out of the village into the surrounding fields where he did his warm-up stretches, then he rounded the stadium a couple of times before jogging back towards the inn at a leisurely pace, feeling relaxed and satisfied with his physical prowess. 

* * *

Oliver’s breakfast consisted of two slices of toast with eggs and baked beans, which he flushed down with some fresh orange juice. It was still early and the cafeteria mostly empty, so he sat by himself as there were no seats available at the only other occupied table, those were taken by the three Committee members and the groundsman.

Nobody spoke, and he revelled in the quiet, unhurried atmosphere of the young morning hours. 

* * *

As they walked out onto the pitch in their freshly-cleaned practice robes, Siobhán approached him. 

“I completely forgot to mention this, but I sent Duncan a quick owl last night. They keep two barn owls at the inn that are reserved for guest use only, so I thought it couldn’t hurt.”

He grinned, thinking about how ecstatic his team captain must have been to hear from Siobhán. 

“Be honest, you think he’s going to flip without us there.” 

His teammate looked slightly chagrined. “You know he’s the type to worry too much, especially about matters beyond his control. It’s been ages since he’s had to handle things entirely by himself. Us not being with the team during practice must drive him up the walls.”

Oliver found himself agreeing with that assessment. “I hope Albinson, Xu, and Rousseau go easy on his nerves, they can be quite a handful at times.” 

Wallace had returned from the war a changed man. Gone were his natural smile and the relentless positivity, replaced by constant fear and a compulsive need to micromanage everything down to the tiniest detail. 

When they had confronted him about it, he’d deflected, and instead offered to step down as captain. Both of them had staunchly refused and suggested to shoulder some of his responsibilities until he was feeling better. 

Now, two years later, things were fine for the most part, as Wallace had worked hard to improve his mental health. With both of them gone, though, they were a little worried that he’d end up overstraining himself.

* * *

Once practice began, Oliver felt like he had managed to get a good grip on himself, and when he mounted his broom, he did so filled with unwavering confidence. Quidditch was his forte and the pitch his home, his sanctuary. No one would be able to take this from him because this was where he belonged and he was determined not to let one Marcus Flint mess with his opportunity to fly for England. 

They spent both Sunday and Monday with drills - Keeper drills, Beater drills, Chaser drills, Seeker drills - and it was equal parts exhausting and fulfilling. There was no need to worry about sleep any longer, Oliver passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow, mind blank from both physical and mental exhaustion. 

The Keeper drills had highlighted what he already knew, that compared to the other two Keepers, his strengths lay in his flexibility and his fast reaction time. Though he was by no means a bad flier, Robinson had him beat in broom handling, and Harrington quite frankly exuded an intimidating presence when he circled the hoops like an unleashed Bludger. 

Oliver, however, stayed focused and managed to stand out with the amount of “impossible” shots he blocked, as well as the stable performance he delivered. 

From watching and analysing Robinson and Harrington’s play, he was well aware of their strengths and weaknesses, so it came as no surprise to him that Robinson had difficulty adapting to the inconsistent flow of the drills and Harrington got caught up in trash-talking one too many times. 

While this was practice, nothing more, Oliver estimated he had good chances to make the line-up if he kept up his current form.

Out of all the position-related drills, the Seekers’ were the most enjoyable to spectate. One of them involved an obstacle course of flying rings that hovered above the pitch at varying heights and distances, some so low they almost touched the ground, others were up far enough that clouds would have obscured them, had there been any. 

There was no set path, the only instruction Gareth gave the three Seekers was that to complete the task, they had to fly through every single ring. The rings consisted of a type of harmless magical fire that would change colour as soon as someone passed through it, with the colour depending on whether its edges had been touched. 

All three Seekers approached the task differently, their priorities clearly visible in their respective styles. 

Campbell was careful and thorough, not touching a single ring. Parish was an elegant and agile flier, his movement looked weightless as he completed the course with an air of deceptive nonchalance. 

But Oliver loved watching Sampson’s runs the most. Sampson was a speed demon. She cared little for optics and accuracy, forgoing both for brutal velocity. Her total time was three whole seconds faster than Parish’s best, even though she never approached the course from the same angle twice, and was thus not able to gain speed through memorisation. 

He found beauty in her uncompromising pragmaticism, in her willingness to take risks, and he was impressed with the way unwarranted criticism seemed to simply roll off of her. 

Beater drills were mainly focused on accuracy, strength, and intent. They trained with targets that were immobile at first but eventually started moving in easy patterns that got more and more unpredictable as time went by. 

Oliver observed silently as Siobhán drew back her bat and swung at a Bludger in a single, fluid motion, the projectile striking the target dead centre, shattering it into tiny pieces that instantly dissolved. From experience, he knew that she usually played to hinder, not to hurt, but displays like this served as a reminder that she undoubtedly had the skills to do a lot of damage if she so chose. 

Chaser drills and Keeper drills always took place at the same time - for obvious reasons. This meant Oliver got a close look at the form of every single Chaser competing for a spot on the line-up. 

Flying styles, passing accuracy, shooting habits, team play, risk-taking...the list went on and on. There were so many qualities to judge a good Chaser by, and Oliver was in the prime position to cherry-pick the ones he wanted to pay attention to. 

Even back at Hogwarts, Oliver had been impressed with Flint’s flying style - confident and unafraid. But where he’d been offensively playing for contact during his school days and much of his time with the Falcons, intent more often than not to knock his opponents off their brooms, his disruptive play had become a lot more defensive. 

It would be a lie to claim that there was another Chaser present Oliver was half as interested in as Flint, and for once, that had absolutely nothing to do with their past or Flint as a person. 

The fact that Flint would take over as Appleby’s captain as soon as their current captain and Seeker, Ceridwen Howell, retired, was one of the League’s worst kept secrets. His development as a player was much-discussed among experts in the Quidditch circle; according to the tabloids, both Montrose and Ballycastle were interested and had made offers upwards of a thousand Galleons. 

Still, when it came to direct duels in front of the hoops, Oliver had it firmly in the bag. Although Flint was a leader with a far above-average performance across the board, he wasn’t his team’s top scorer. His aim was true for the most part, and his throws didn’t lack in force or speed, but he did have a tendency to go for the goal post closest to him when pressured, something that Oliver exploited at every chance. He was also known for his no-nonsense Fast Balls, which, while challenging Oliver’s reactions, didn’t offer much variety where the trajectory was concerned. 

Watching the frustration build on Flint’s face with every shot Oliver blocked was immensely satisfying. He did his level best to suppress the urge to smile, trying instead to focus only on the Quaffle in the next Chaser’s (Morgan’s) hands until everything else went blurry in his vision. No need to give up the psychological advantage. 

There was a reason Gareth had invited him here, and Oliver was going to prove that he was worth every last drop of ink on that invitation.

* * *

Two days worth of drills were followed by a surprising announcement on Tuesday morning: Gareth wanted them to form three teams. They’d start off flying team drills, and on Wednesday and Thursday, the teams would play each other in matches that were limited to an hour each. In case the Seekers did not manage to catch the Snitch within the allotted time frame, the winner would be determined by the number of goals scored. And there was one more thing - 

“I want the three Keepers to act as captains for this. You,“ and here he addressed Robinson, Harrington, and Oliver directly, “get to pick your teams out of all the players present. Ladies first, Harrington, you’re chronically late, so you go last! Let’s go, no lollygagging!” 

And he went off to join the remaining players, arms crossed in front of his chest, expression curious and watchful, like a child on Christmas morning. 

Robinson immediately defied Oliver’s expectations and first-picked Gareth, who shrugged and took his place behind her. Oliver didn’t really have to think about his first pick, there was no need. The name left his lips the second he knew it was his turn.

“Marcus Flint!” he called, voice steady and sure. Flint’s eyes met his, wide with shock and so, so grey. There was no way he had expected this. Oliver smiled. 

When Flint came over, the first thing out of his mouth was, “Is this because of what Vosper said? I know he talked to you, too,” tone sharp, confrontational. 

“No. I just want to win,” Oliver replied, determination in every syllable, meeting Flint’s stare head-on. It was the truth. Gareth’s words, while constantly on the forefront of his mind, had little to do with the choices he made where Quidditch was concerned. Those were in two separate mental drawers entirely. 

Flint’s posture eased somewhat, and he nodded, more to himself than to Oliver. “Yeah, me too. Let’s crush them.” And when he took his place behind Oliver, he didn’t keep any extra distance.

Although Robinson stole Siobhán away from him in the next round, he ended up happy with the final result. Sampson would play Seeker, Flint, Morgan, and Thomas were his Chasers, Odell and Hawkins his Beaters. He could work with that. 

Given that he’d actually captained a team before, he knew how to keep players in line and come up with tactics on the fly, and he was already looking forward to getting together with his team after dinner to talk shop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title of this chapter was taken from the song "Circadian Rhythm" by Silversun Pickups


	3. immunity over, take a moment, then stop

Team drills went over way smoother than formations. Players were allowed verbal communication, and they were all used to taking orders from one single team captain, although for some that experience lay further in the past than for others. 

Gareth had given them a bunch of ideas for a wide variety of drills, some of them obligatory, the rest merely serving as inspiration. It was also possible for the captains to implement their own preferred exercises, or ask their players for suggestions.

Since they’d been given so much leeway where creativity and prioritisation were concerned, Oliver decided he’d run them through a few drills on communication and teamwork first, followed by his favourite reaction speed exercises. After those had been completed, he had them vote on aspects they wanted to work on as a team, and they unanimously decided on accuracy.

Oliver’s team were as serious about winning as he was; they didn’t fight his directions and held back with their opinions unless he asked them for their input; they worked quickly and efficiently, the mood was focused and productive. 

During the small review sessions they held in between drills, no one was afraid to voice their perspective, and it was fun to work on improvisations together. 

All of it made him miss his Hogwarts days, specifically the time he’d spent as captain. He knew the Gryffindor team had seen him as a bit of a tyrant, and looking back, he couldn’t fault them for it. 

The last couple of years had helped combat his eternal tunnel vision somewhat, playing under Wallace had caused him to realise that a good captain did more than work his team to exhaustion with no concern for his own or his players’ wellbeing. A captain wasn’t supposed to push his personal ambition onto his players, it was more about motivating and mentoring them enough that they developed their own healthy competitive drive.

But selecting players, building a team, taking on the task of forming that team into a sharp, comprehensive unit, a force to be reckoned with - that was a mantle of responsibility he’d taken off when he’d graduated. And now he wanted it back, with a sudden, fierce longing. 

* * *

Practice ended, and Oliver was filled with a satisfaction that settled deep within his bones. Everybody around him looked just as tired, sweaty, and worn out, but no one seemed upset, there was a quiet sense of community about it. Behind them lay a day of hard work that was rewarding in a way only a true Quidditch nut could appreciate. 

When they had showered, changed and consumed a substantial meal, Oliver’s team found themselves in a cosy room with a fireplace that was definitely magical, as it required no wood to burn and gave off no heat. 

The couches, armchairs, and loveseats looked very inviting with the mountains of pillows that had been generously distributed on top of them. Everything was kept in the same red-and-white pattern reminiscent of the English flag, and there were tiny, curled-up red dragons stitched onto the pillows. They appeared to be snoozing. 

After a short moment of deliberation, they decided on a seating arrangement in the back of the room, close to a window, and secluded enough that no one would be able to overhear them unless they went to great efforts to do so. Oliver was happy that his team was taking things just as seriously as he was. 

Talking strategy made it rather clear who among them enjoyed breaking down Quidditch to the theoretical level and which of the players were more practically minded. 

He and Flint could philosophise about Porskoff Ploys and Dionysus Dives all day long, their correspondence had made that abundantly clear. It turned out that Thomas, Morgan, and Odell were - if not terribly interested, as in Odell’s case - able to follow the conversation for the most part, to the point where they ended up making quite a few useful suggestions. 

Hawkins and Sampson tried valiantly, but Oliver could see them struggle with their waning attention as the evening wore on. There was a time when this would have bothered him immensely, but for the time being, he was content with the fact that they had understood the instructions he’d given them for the upcoming matches. 

Meanwhile, Oliver himself was experiencing a strong inner turmoil. To be able to discuss tactics with Flint was… immensely rewarding. He was fighting to hide his smile when Flint agreed with him, and how much he enjoyed it when Flint disputed his views. There was a deep understanding between them where Quidditch was concerned, and there were moments where it was almost like they were the only two people in the room.

Flint truly was his equal, his match - and Oliver felt sick at the thought. Why couldn’t his stupid, bloody feelings latch onto someone else? Why did it have to be Marcus fucking Flint, of all people? 

Part of the reason it had been so easy to focus on Quidditch and ignore relationships (especially after the war) was that he’d simply not been interested in anyone else (though he’d never admit that to himself, nevermind out loud). 

There had been a couple one-night stands, sure, he’d hooked up with a couple of blokes - some wizards, some not - he’d just never been attracted enough to try and develop it into something serious. 

He hated himself for being so stuck on Flint, unable - maybe even unwilling? A voice in his mind carefully inquired, sounding suspiciously like Percy Weasley - to move on. 

There had to be someone out there who was compatible with him on the same level Flint was, except not involved with Death Eaters and dark magic and pureblood superstitions in any way. Of course that someone would have to conveniently be available on the dating market, as well, and come to think of it, Oliver had no idea whether Flint was currently single -  _ Merlin, sod this for a lark _ . 

He balled his right hand into a fist so tight that his nails were pressing into his skin. 

_ Stop thinking about him like that _ .

Eventually, they finished up the strategy meeting and bid each other goodnight, yawning and stretching, some of them Disapparating on the spot, the rest filing out of the room at a leisurely pace. 

And now it was close to midnight, the flames of the magical fire providing the only source of light in the room, he was sitting here alone with Marcus Flint, neither meeting the other’s eyes, and an ocean of silence between them. 

It was uncomfortable until it wasn’t, the atmosphere a weird no man’s land held in place by their reluctance to break it, like a spell that lost its power once a single sound was uttered. 

Oliver remembered what it felt like to be brave, to leap over his own shadow. Instead, he swallowed all of his words and waited. If Flint wanted something, he could bloody well open his mouth and speak. 

“So. Vosper talked to me yesterday. I assume he gave you the same lecture?”

While he’d expected Flint to lead the way, the sound of his voice still shocked Oliver from his musings. Calm and matter-of-fact, with a slightly ironic undertone. 

“Don’t waste your time asking questions you already know the answers to. Yeah, we spoke. I don’t see any issues, though. Quidditch will be fine, regardless of the fact that I don’t much care for your company.”

Where his body language had been open and relaxed before, Oliver now crossed his arms and assumed a more defensive posture. The last thing he wanted was to present himself as an easy target or bare any weak points, not when he knew Flint would jump on them. Flint noticed, though he didn’t comment on it beyond a very expressive eye roll. 

“You don’t, do you? It’s funny, Wood, you almost seemed like you enjoyed yourself back there.” 

He stared at his hands for a second, then looked up, directly at Oliver. Though the light was dim and his face partly clouded in shadow, Oliver could still see the glitter of something in his eyes before he managed to hide it behind a mask of indifference. 

“Listen, Flint: you may be a decent tactician, and talking strategy with you was certainly worthwhile, but that does not mean I appreciate other aspects of your personality. We’re teammates, and you’re a more than capable player. Vosper wants us to be civil with each other, and I can definitely do that. But we’re not friends, and I have no interest in changing that.” 

His heart was beating fast in his throat, and he wished he could simply tell the traitorous organ to stuff it. This needed to be done, he had to draw a bright red line in the sand, so both of them knew where they stood. So they could be professional about this. It was the only logical decision if he wanted to keep Flint at a distance. 

And he  _ should  _ want that. Flint hadn’t exactly given him any reason to change his stance on the matter, and he wouldn’t get the opportunity either if Oliver had anything to say about it. 

He recalled his father’s fear, forcefully pulled to the surface memories of what the war had demanded of him. Healing had taken time and effort, and some of the mental scars would never fully fade. 

Flint had no right to any part of his life, and Oliver shouldn’t want to give him access. 

_ Shouldn’t _ being the operative word, here. 

“You’re a real fucking riot, you know? To think I ever believed there was hope for you...guess that’s another pathetic notion I have to discard. Fine, I can do professional,  _ Wood _ . See you at practice tomorrow.” 

His laughter sounded hollow and mocking and not all like in the memory of the night on the Astronomy Tower that Oliver held so painfully close to his heart. When he got up to leave, there was something final about it, and Oliver told himself that he didn’t want to hold him back to talk more, even if all they did was throw thinly veiled barbs at each other. 

That night, Oliver went to bed in a daze, half-convinced that he’d made all the right choices and half-consumed by the doubts his stubborn heart nurtured. 

* * *

Breakfast brought with it an air of excitement, loud chatter filled the cafeteria and teams were already competing with each other when they hadn’t even stepped onto the pitch yet. 

Hawkins bet Siobhán that he could at least double the amount of soft boiled eggs she ate, and only a quick intervention from Flint averted certain disaster, although he had obvious trouble suppressing a grin while he held the egg basket hostage. 

Oliver had long since gotten past the days where the nerves before a match kept him from eating, though watching Flint caused a slightly queasy feeling in his stomach. 

Ignoring any uneasiness he might or might not be experiencing, he filled his plate with the bacon strips Sampson had so generously spared. 

She was currently involved in a half-serious discussion with Parish, and like every single one of their conversations, this one, too, stretched the definitions of what was considered an acceptable indoor volume. Apparently debating the advantages of various Quidditch equipment suppliers required a lot more passion than Oliver had previously thought. 

* * *

An hour later, wearing fresh practice robes, brooms clutched tightly and eyes shining with expectation, everyone was gathered around Gareth and the three Committee members, right in the middle of the pitch. 

“Alright, you lot, time to get real serious. I’ve asked the Committee members, and they agreed to take turns acting as our trusty, impartial referees today. Mrs Selina Tate over here,” he gesticulated towards a gangly, bespectacled witch with short, brownish hair that had started greying in patches, “will start us off.” 

Her face appeared to be devoid of any emotion, a feat Oliver considered impressive, yet weirdly intimidating. She nodded in acknowledgement, then took the small silver whistle from Gareth’s outstretched hand, and promptly wiped it on her nondescript black robes. 

“I won’t tolerate foul play, and if you try to fool me or waste my time trying to talk yourself out of it, don’t expect me to be lenient,” she said, then mounted her broom, feet still firmly planted on the ground. 

Her two companions walked over to the side of the pitch, seemingly content to observe the proceedings for the moment. 

“Now that we got that out of the way, let me say a few words before we begin. It won’t take long, promise.” And he put on one of his more dazzling grins, motioning for them to come closer.

“I already told you the most important rules - sixty minutes per match, not a second longer. If a Seeker catches the Snitch, the match will end instantly, just like regular old Quidditch.” His grin grew impossibly wider, the poorly hidden anticipation spreading to his eyes. 

“The team with the most points wins by default. Wins will be tallied up, and the two teams with the most wins will play in a final of sorts that’s set to take place tomorrow evening. Whichever team isn’t participating in the ongoing match will watch from the sidelines, no one leaves the pitch unless it’s an emergency, or you have to use the bathroom. No time-outs, either.” Some groans could be heard, though their professionalism kept those to a minimum. 

“Mr Diggory was trained in first-aid magic by the best St. Mungo’s has to offer, so no need to worry.” Cecil Diggory, who apparently had very sharp hearing, waved awkwardly at the mention of his name. 

“We will take ten-minute breaks between matches, you can use those to freshen up, talk strategy, or warm-up.” This announcement earned him a couple of relieved faces. Ada Slater, in particular, seemed a lot more cheery all of a sudden. 

“Our first match of the day will be Team Wood versus Team Harrington! I’m looking forward to some good, clean Quidditch, but most of all I want to see you sweat. This isn’t just any ordinary training camp, after all! Now, come on. Show me what you’ve got!” 

He clapped his hands - two short, loud claps. The sound reverberated throughout the empty stadium. And just like that, the crowd split up, with the two teams grouping up on the pitch, and Robinson’s team strolling over to join the remaining two committee members on the sidelines. 

Gareth gave them ten minutes to warm up, and Oliver intended to make good use of every last second.

As soon as he mounted his Firebolt, he could feel the familiar euphoria run through his veins. Practice was all well and good, but drills could never replace the real thing. A game of Quidditch brought with it a thrill that was far superior to any legal high - any illegal one too if you asked Oliver (nobody did). With a clear sky and a slight breeze, the weather conditions were perfect. He tried to temper his impatience, to no avail.

All eyes were on referee Tate, as she opened the ornate wooden box used to confine the four balls, and released both Bludgers and the Snitch with a flick of her wand. They zoomed off, the Snitch disappearing from view almost immediately. 

For the fourteen players, time appeared to slow down to a halt as they watched her grab the Quaffle, secure her grip on it, and finally throw it straight up into the air.

The game was on. 

Oliver instantly headed for the goalposts, not sparing a glance for the clash behind him, as six Chasers went after the big red ball in an attempt to get to it first. Six Chasers, and one Seeker. 

He took up his position in front of the hoops and watched with a slight smile on his face as their initial strategy paid off. 

Out of everyone participating in the tryouts, Sampson was by far the fastest flyer. When she sped in the direction of the Quaffle, Campbell assumed she’d already spotted the Snitch, and chased her. 

In the ensuing confusion, Flint was able to snatch the Quaffle safely away before Roger Davies could get his hands on it, and passed it to Morgan, the fastest Chaser in their line-up. 

It took Harrington’s team a second too long to sort out their defences - a second Morgan used to fake a shot on goal, turn around, and send the Quaffle Dean Thomas’ way instead, who dunked it into the left hoop with a shout, the ball soaring directly above Harrington’s head. 

Oliver cheered, then focused on Paul Irwin, the broad-shouldered Portree Chaser, who was headed his way after a disgruntled Harrington had sent the Quaffle to him with a throw that seemed to have had quite a bit of frustration behind it. 

Hawkins aimed a Bludger towards Davies, accurately predicting that Irwin was going to pass the Quaffle to him, causing Davies to duck, and the throw to go wide. Flint snagged it, and they were off again. 

The evening before, they’d concluded that their team’s greatest strength lay in their speed. If they were to have a shot at winning this thing, they’d do so by dazzling their opponents with quick decisions and quicker reactions. 

No matter which team they’d get to play first, they needed to force its players to adjust to their pace somehow, throw them off their game. Morgan and Sampson were the keys to this strategy. Flint’s game sense was stable as a rock and Thomas was just versatile enough to make it work. 

Oliver himself had put forth the theory that one day was far from sufficient to come up with a strategy that incorporated complex tactics, so if the other teams were to try it, they’d simply have to be as disruptive as possible. Observing his ideas bear this much fruit within the first few moments of the match was immensely satisfying. 

An indefinite amount of time went by without any major events, the Quaffle changing hands as often as the League trophy had in recent years, but Oliver was monitoring his team’s movement closely. He could see it in the thin line of Morgan’s lips, the tension in Flint’s posture - they were lying in wait, prepared to pounce, to punish the slightest mistake in their opponents’ play. 

Davies was coming towards him again, Quaffle clutched tight. He was crouched low on his broom in an attempt to minimise wind resistance. From experience, he knew that Davies had decent aim, was capable of throwing a mean Knuckle Ball, and had a knack for scoring from even the most disadvantageous of angles.

Oliver noticed an incoming Bludger a little too late, and with Davies closing in, had to make a split-second decision. 

He reached the lowest hoop at the same time as the Quaffle left Davies’ hand, a feeling of relief filled him as he realised that he’d guessed correctly. It was short-lived, however, as the Bludger was fast approaching, he had no time- 

His hands wrapped safely around the Quaffle as he let himself drop sideways off his broom, hanging upside down from his knees, the Bludger whooshing past him at the exact spot where his right shoulder had been only moments ago. 

Faint applause from the sidelines reached his ears, but he had no mind for it. All three of his Chasers were in range, and when his eyes met Flint’s, something slotted into place between them. 

Here, flying many feet above the ground, with a Quidditch pitch below them, Oliver could acknowledge to himself that they were on the same wavelength, that Flint understood him in a way nobody else ever had. 

So when he used the momentum he’d gained by swinging back and forth on his broom, relying on his thigh muscles as an anchor, and catapulted the Quaffle upwards in his direction, Flint knew precisely what Oliver wanted him to do. 

He dove forward as if to welcome it with open arms, thus distracting the opposing team’s Chasers. At the same time, Morgan quietly stole herself away, on her way to the other side of the pitch. 

Flint ducked below the Quaffle at the last second, Thomas caught it easily and passed it to Flint, who in turn used his strength and good throwing arm to send it onwards to Morgan. 

She didn’t hesitate to convert her teammates’ efforts into a goal, raising the score to 20 - 0. 

The game progressed smoothly from then on. Oliver’s team scored three more times, and he managed to deter their opponents’ shots on goal (for the most part) only allowing two past him. 

Hawkins and Odell were slowly falling into a good rhythm. They had divided the pitch up between the two of them and were alternating attack and defence extremely well. What really impressed Oliver, however, was how effortless they managed to communicate with the small amount of practice time the team had been given. 

At one point, they executed an impeccable Dopplebeater Defense when Hunter Allard - famous for her role as the centrepiece of Montrose’s Chaser line-up - was making her way over to Oliver’s end of the pitch. She was forced into a clumsy Sloth Grip Roll in order to evade the Bludger and lost the Quaffle in the process.

Thomas secured it before another Chaser from Harrington’s team could get too close, and he didn’t have to wait long before Flint and Morgan joined in on his offence. 

Forty-seven minutes in, Sampson suddenly took a nosedive towards the ground, scattering Harrington’s team’s try at a Hawkshead Attacking Formation. Campbell didn’t react fast enough to follow her rapid descent, and he came close to colliding with Irwin in the attempt.

Everybody watched with bated breath as she flung herself forward off her broom roughly four feet above the pitch, did a barrel roll on the grass, then jumped back up with a victorious yell. 

In her outstretched left hand, she held a tiny golden ball, its intricate wings uselessly fluttering. The Golden Snitch had been secured, the game ended with a score of 200 - 20 in their favour. 

Although it was hardly more than a casual practice game, the triumph in his team’s celebration was palpable. They landed in a circle around Sampson, and Morgan was the first to lay down her broom, sprint forward and envelop the smaller woman in a tight hug. 

“You’re insane,” she stated, while she pulled out her wand and removed the grass stains from Sampson’s robes, “absolutely bonkers!” 

“Well done, Sampson,” Oliver agreed, beaming with pride, “your speed is impressive. Glad to have you with me.” And he patted her shoulder in the same approving fashion Wallace employed with his players after victories, hoping that Siobhán wasn’t close enough to witness it, as it would definitely merit some teasing. 

“Likewise, captain,” Sampson replied, and sketched a short salute, her smile wide and eager, “that’s one win in the bag.” He had to admit it felt good how easily they’d accepted him as their captain, felt warm and sweet in a way that was better than any outside validation he’d ever gotten.

“Where’s my praise,  _ captain _ ?” There was something wolfish about Flint’s smirk as he walked up to Oliver with his broom still in hand, accompanied by a visibly elated Dean Thomas. 

“Yeah, Wood, where’s  _ our  _ praise?” Morgan asked with an impish glint in her eyes, letting Sampson go and turning around to face the rest of the team.

Oliver rolled his eyes, but since they’d done exceptionally well in their first match, he saw no harm in indulging them - a little positive reinforcement could go a long way, after all.

“Everybody did great, okay? Hawkins and Odell, your Bludgers were on point. Fantastic coordination.” The two Beaters exchanged a fist-bump. 

“Thomas, nice work constantly switching it up between offence and defence. You’re a quick thinker, I like that.” His smile grew, and Thomas seemed to flush with the praise, though it was hard to tell due to his dark skin. 

“Morgan, your tempo was game-defining, and you’re fearless in front of the goalposts. Good arm, too.” 

For some reason, she suddenly pretended to be very interested in the stray copper hairs that had escaped from the tight knot she’d made to tame the rest of her wild mane. “Thanks, cap.” 

“And Flint…it’s good to have you on my team for once. This way, I don’t have to worry about you using your sharp game sense to queer my pitch.” Flint snorted, and Oliver was unable to tell whether his amusement was directed at the situation or his unfortunate choice in idioms. 

“That all you got, Wood? I’m sure you can do better than that.” Their gazes met, and there was something unreadable in Flint’s eyes, something new and dangerous. For all he’d been able to basically read Flint's mind during the match, he was now struggling to make sense of the man. Oliver mentally shook himself, trying to bring his thoughts in order again.

Thankfully, Gareth chose this instant to interrupt their little celebration. He walked up to their small semi-circle, and stood, seizing each of them up for a moment. After a short moment of deliberation, he turned to Flint and Oliver, nodded in acknowledgement, and said, “I see someone came to play,” like he was stating a fact.

“Oh, we didn’t just come to play, Vosper,” Oliver was aware that he probably looked slightly manic, but he felt confident, optimistic. His team was still huddled up around him, exuding the same determined energy. 

“We came to win,” Flint finished for him, and slapped Oliver on the back, his touch lingering. Oliver could feel it through the layers of his practice robes. Flint’s hand was warm and steady, and Oliver had to stop himself from leaning into it. 

Not friends, just teammates. 

* * *

Their team ended the day with a 3 - 1 record, the one loss a close call against Robinson’s side. Parish had gotten a headstart in the hunt for the Snitch, as he’d spotted it first when it was zipping past Robinson’s middle goalpost. 

It was dark when they finally entered the cafeteria, arms on the clock above the entrance informing them that it was “Ten p.m.!” on the dot by growing little mouths and screeching it into the room at a deafening volume. 

“Clock’s cursed,” the innkeeper said by way of explanation and shrugged. “Bloody thing does this twice a day, at ten o’clock sharp. I’m not going to throw it away, though. Family heirloom, plus I’m sort of wary of what would happen.” 

Everyone was tired and hungry, so dinner went by in a quiet minute, and before he knew it, Oliver’s team wished him goodnight, and they split up to return to their rooms. 

Although he would have liked to reflect on the day’s matches, he wasn’t about to keep them up past their bedtimes. A good night’s sleep would do more to keep them alert and motivated than a poorly planned strategy session filled with a bunch of drowsing zombies. 

* * *

The next day greeted them with grey skies and a light drizzle, surprising absolutely no one. 

Oliver thought to himself that he’d almost missed the British weather. Getting the chance to train under different meteorological conditions was another added benefit. On the pitch, they would be completely exposed. 

Gareth cheerfully informed them that use of the Impervius Charm wouldn’t be permitted - since it had already been cast on the robes when they’d been manufactured - and every player who got caught breaking this rule guaranteed a free penalty to the opposing team. 

Players with glasses - Hawkins among others - were the exception, Gareth emphasised that it wouldn’t be fair to put them in a disadvantageous position because of something they had no control over, and everyone else found themselves agreeing. 

Robinson and Harrington were given the honours to lead their teams in the opening game of the second day, and it turned into a grudge match almost immediately. They’d also played in the final game of the previous day, and Harrington had executed a bona fide Plumpton Pass, hiding the Snitch in his sleeve until Campbell showed up to extract it, winning them the game.

Referee Watkins had been less than thrilled with this sequence of events, but after consulting with the other two Committee members, she had reached the conclusion that the result was legitimate. 

As far as the official rulebook was concerned, the Plumpton Pass was a valid tactic. According to the Department of Magical Games and Sports, it was only considered a Snitchnip (and as such, a foul), when the player in question actually touched the Golden Snitch. 

Oliver and his team watched from the sidelines as referee Diggory called the third penalty in a row, this time for a case of pretty blatant blagging from Lynette Sharpe.

Roger Davies grabbed the Quaffle, made his way over to Robinson, and chucked it through the left hoop after a convincing feint to the right. The score changed from 30 - 40 to 30 - 50, and Harrington’s triumphant shouts rang through the stadium. 

From where he was standing, Oliver couldn’t really get a good look at Gareth, yet he was sure that England’s captain was anything but happy with how things were proceeding. He exchanged glances with Flint, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged as if to say, “All the better for us.” 

After another half hour, the game got called. Time was up, neither team had been able to claim the Snitch for themselves, and Harrington’s team won by twenty points.

With the exception of his robes, Oliver felt soaked, his hair sticking to his head, flat and dripping. He was filled with a kind of malicious glee when he noticed that Flint’s meticulously styled hair had suffered the same fate, and instantly chastised himself for such ignoble thoughts. There was a match to win. 

Oliver gathered his teammates around him, aware that he didn’t have much time to fire up their spirits. Though when he faced them, he looked into the determined expressions of six drenched players, none of them giving the impression that they lacked motivation.

So he just left it at a simple, “Let’s do this, team,” and watched as they gripped their brooms tighter, filled with grim tenacity. They followed him out onto the pitch to warm-up, ready to show Robinson and her squad how to play a real game of Quidditch. 

His team continued where they’d left off the day before, winning their first two games against both Team Robinson and Team Harrington. The rain posed a small obstacle, granted, but they were making it work.

Players came close to falling off their brooms twice, Odell over-balancing with her bat and slipping when she gripped the wet broomstick with her other hand to keep herself upright, and Thomas ducking sideways too fast to evade an incoming Bludger aimed at him by Gareth, losing his hold and barely managing to stay on. 

Both times, their teammates were by their sides fast enough to support them, sacrificing advantages on the pitch and very nearly conceding a goal. Fortunately, Oliver was there to put a stop to Davies’ valiant attempt. 

With a final record of 6 - 2, his team secured a spot in the finale. They had dropped two matches against Robinson’s team, but when it came to Harrington, Oliver’s team had really had their number. 

His standing hypothesis was that Harrington’s team had simply struggled to adapt to their ever-changing tempo. It also helped that Sampson had completely outclassed Campbell as a Seeker.

Robinson and Harrington had to face each other in a tie-breaker since both teams had a record of 3 - 5. Although the rain had subsided some, the wind was picking up the slack, and a stiff breeze blew past the group of players crowded around Gareth as he announced the news.

Oliver’s team returned to the sidelines, all of them half-expecting a repeat of the foul-heavy game from earlier. What happened instead was that the match developed into a true nail-biter, one that lived up to the skill of the big names playing in it. 

The two teams were facing each other at eye-level; both Keepers managed to show off some stunning feats when it came to guarding their hoops, the Quaffle switched hands so fast it was barely recognizable as more than a red blur from where they were sitting, and the Beaters attacked and defended across the entire pitch. No matter who would pull ahead in the end, Oliver knew they’d make a formidable opponent in the final.

When Robinson stopped another one of Davies’ hard-to-predict shots, this time aimed at the right hoop, Flint leaned over into Oliver’s space and whispered, “You worried yet, Wood?” directly into his left ear. His hot breath and the intimate tone in his voice combined to chase goosebumps down Oliver’s spine, an experience he did not appreciate  _ at all _ , thank you very much. 

He contemplated the question for a moment. Did he even want to give Flint a serious reply? Was this worth arguing about? Since he couldn’t really find a good answer to either, he decided on the path of least resistance. 

“Not really,” he whispered back without further elaboration. This was true; in fact, he’d never been more confident. While his two rivals were excellent Keepers, no doubt, they didn’t seem like the type to think outside the box. 

Oliver had had eight matches in total to analyze what the opposing teams brought to the table in regards to strategy, and he hadn’t needed more than four of those to come to the conclusion that both Robinson and Harrington had chosen to rely on the skills of their players more than anything. 

Flint sighed, deep and long-suffering, though he didn’t show any signs that he intended to disappear from Oliver’s personal space. 

“Do you Gryffindors ever get tired of all that bravado? Be honest, Wood, that’s bound to take a toll eventually, right?” There was no malice to be detected in his words, merely a thick layer of deliberate provocation. 

Oliver opened his mouth to shoot back with some witty retort - that was how these playfully antagonistic conversations were supposed to go after all, you traded barbs until one of you accidentally-on-purpose overstepped whatever invisible boundaries there were, at which point it would finish its metamorphosis into a full-blown argument. 

But when he breathed in, Flint’s scent filled his nostrils. 

Broom polish, the air after a lightning strike, freshly picked lemon balm. A mocking voice in the back of his mind helpfully supplied that from now on, he wouldn’t have to wonder about what Amortentia smelled like to him anymore. 

That thought pissed him off so much, he lost track of whatever he’d been going to say to Flint next. Actually, it was more like his brain completely short-circuited. 

Flint smirked and was undoubtedly about to hit Oliver with another smart-arsed remark when Thomas pulled at his sleeve and redirected his attention towards the pitch. 

Oliver looked up, just in time to witness Parish execute a textbook example of a Spiral Dive. He assumed it was a Wronski Feint at first, with the speed at which Parish was going, Campbell hot on his heels. Then he spotted the golden glimmer flitting across the pitch, very close to the ground.

Everybody had stopped to watch the two Seekers duel each other, even referee Tate had seemingly pressed pause on her constant vigilance, rather choosing to spectate the high-speed chase. 

Campbell, ever the sensible flyer, lost a bit of speed when he slowed down in order to level with the ground, while Parish - relying purely on his agility and superior broom-handling - pushed his Firebolt to its limits, going vertical at the literal last second, and narrowly avoided what could have been a harrowing crash. 

When he stretched out his right hand and reached for the Snitch, barely touching it with his fingertips, it looked like he was going to over-balance for an instant. Then he crouched even lower, chest pressed flat to his broom and grabbed the tiny golden ball. 

Referee Tate blew her silver whistle, and the match ended with the jubilant cries of Robinson’s team, as they formed a circle around Parish, and raised him up onto Siobhán’s shoulders. Next to Oliver, Sampson snorted. “He’s such a smug little wanker already, there is absolutely  _ no _ need to blow more smoke up his arse. None.” 

Oliver patted her back in commiseration. “We’ll just have to beat him, then. To save you the trouble and the mental strain, I mean.”

She winked at him. “No problem, captain. I’m ready to knock this arrogant little git back into last week.”

“Are...we still talking about Quidditch?” Flint asked from behind Oliver, forearm propped up on his shoulder like they were friends or something. Oliver had half a mind to shake him off but didn’t fancy another scene. 

Teammates. Just teammates. Except for Wallace (who didn’t care for the physical contact) and Emery (who couldn’t reach), his teammates at Puddlemere United did this all the time. 

Sampson winked again, at Flint this time. “When are we not?” 

Flint nodded contemplatively. “Fair enough. I was just making sure, you see. I know a couple quite effective jinxes. For when things get ugly.” And he returned the wink.

“I’m sure you do,” Oliver said, the words coming out a lot more strained than he had intended. There was a funny feeling in his stomach all of a sudden. Of course, he was aware that Flint had meant his comment as a joke, they hadn’t been seriously considering jinxing Parish. But it had served as a painful reminder of why he shouldn’t want the Chaser anywhere near him. 

“Wood, I was joking. For Merlin’s sake, I-” Oliver interrupted him with a curt hand gesture.

“Let’s just focus on our next game and save the clownery for later. We have a final to win.”

He still felt slightly uneasy, and the confused look Flint gave him wasn’t helping things any, but when his team followed him onto the pitch with an emphatic yell of, “Aye, aye, captain!” he could feel a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

* * *

The wind was still blowing strong, really more of a storm by now, and whatever parts of them had gotten thoroughly soaked in the morning returned to a dry state by the time warm-ups were over. As he took up his position in front of the goalposts, Oliver was deeply grateful for this. Alas, it ended up being the only thing merciful about the entire match. 

It took them just about the full sixty minutes, but when Sampson caught the Snitch in a relatively uneventful sequence of events (she simply grabbed it out of the air as it was zooming past her), turning their thirty-point-lead into a 230 - 50 victory, and referee Tate blew her shining silver whistle, their gruelling fight with the weather paid off. 

Every single gust of wind that had torn at their robes, blown the Bludgers and Quaffle off their trajectories, and messed with their brooms? Worth it. Two undeserved penalties after heavy player collisions - one for each team - preceded and followed by fruitless discussions with referee Tate? Worth it. Suffering an extremely painful Bludger hit to his left arm while he desperately tried to predict whether Alfie Kipling’s next shot on goal would be yet another feint? Worth it. 

Rarely had he ever been so happy to be allowed to land, and even walking on the ground, the players still had to fight their way forward. They somehow managed to make it over to the sidelines, where every team member proceeded to hug Sampson who was still clinging to the Snitch, smile wide enough to split her face in half. 

Gareth didn’t give them time to truly celebrate their win - he called a meeting in the stadium’s tunnels where he wouldn’t have to yell quite as loud to make himself heard over the tempest brewing outside. 

“First of all, I’d like to thank all of you for giving your best out there these last two days. These matches have been very interesting, and we,” here he indicated himself and the three Committee members, “have a ton of player performances to evaluate. I also want to take a moment to congratulate Mr Wood’s team for a very convincing victory, that was some solid strategizing for the short amount of time I gave you to prepare.” 

He acknowledged every player on Oliver’s team with a nod and a serious (at least for Gareth’s standards) handshake. When he got to Oliver, he grasped his shoulder and met his eyes for a brief instant, as if to say, “Well done,” and Oliver knew instinctively that this had nothing to do with the matches and everything with the fact that he’d taken Gareth’s stern advice to heart. 

“You’re all tired and deserve a warm meal, so I’m going to save my breath and the grand gestures for when we’re through with this whole thing. Tomorrow morning, we’ll be rerunning formations, and before you lot start complaining - don’t lie, I can see it in your faces! You’ll get the afternoon off, and I’ll announce the official line-up on the pitch before dinner. Don’t be late!” 

At the mention of the announcement, they quieted down, expressions varying from tense to excited. Everybody was dreading it, and yet it was the only reason they had agreed to this whole week in the first place. 

Realising that he’d not actually dismissed them yet, Gareth clapped his hands together and told them to hit the showers. “The innkeeper promised me that there’d be Shepherd’s Pie for dinner tonight, so we better hurry up and get back before it’s all gone cold!”

* * *

For dinner, the team decided to put two tables together so they could enjoy the meal as a group. Hawkins sat down to his left and Odell chose the seat on his right. She immediately made a grab for the bowl of Shepherd’s Pie as soon as her back hit the chair, batting away Thomas’ hands to get the first helping. 

“Listen, I’m sorry, I just need to eat something  _ right this second _ or I  _ will  _ starve,” she said, talking more to the bowl than the rest of the team as she shovelled the Pie onto her plate like it was the last opportunity she’d ever get to enjoy it. 

Hawkins laughed as he leaned back and ran a hand through his thick, windswept brown hair. “You certainly deserve it after that heroic defence. Flint, you owe her one! If she hadn’t gotten to that Bludger in time, you’d need to get your teeth fixed again.” 

Flint, who was patiently waiting for Sampson to finish pouring herself a glass of pumpkin juice, looked up at the mention of his name. “What? Oh, yeah, I’d have been fucked without you. Nice job, Odell.” 

“Captain, you seem distracted,” Morgan commented, pointing her fork at him accusingly.

“No, I’m just...yeah. I guess you’re right.” He shook his head, trying to snap himself out of it, but his brain was signalling him that it was done for the day. 

“You did good today, especially during that last match,” Flint said, and oh, why did he have to be so nice about it? Why couldn’t he just drag Oliver outside and hex him, or something? He was getting sick and tired of this, of hating Flint and craving his company at the same time. 

“That one catch was actually nuts, the one where you did the Starfish and Stick?” Thomas agreed fervently, “were you not afraid the storm would shake you off?”

Oliver shrugged tiredly, accepting the bowl Hawkins handed him, and started to scoop pie out of it. “I know my limits pretty well. Mostly, it’s a matter of balance and core strength,” he passed the bowl on to Morgan, “besides practice, I work out a lot. Fitness, endurance - it feels good to know how far you can push yourself. Keeps you from overestimating your abilities and making stupid mistakes.” 

He took a swig from his Gillywater and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the perfectly chilled liquid running down his throat. 

“You seem like the kind of bloke who knows exactly what he wants,” Odell said, plate already empty again, her eyes focused on the remains of the pie, ”shame you’re not into women because I really fancy that in a man.” 

The compliment had him stumped for a second, before he awkwardly thanked her, intentionally avoiding eye contact and staring down a dish of pomegranate and orange salad instead. 

“That’s only really true when it comes to Quidditch, though,” he amended, feeling like he had to explain himself to not seem overly impolite, “I don’t care for much else.”

“Thankfully, you’re talking to the right people. We should form some kind of support group.” 

“Sampson, you might be on to something there. My last girlfriend walked out on me because she didn’t want to share me with Montrose’s intense practice schedule anymore.” 

His unabashed confession earned Hawkins a sympathetic nod from Morgan, who was sitting on his other side, chin resting on her hands, half of her salad still on her plate, uneaten. This conversation had clearly grabbed her attention. 

“Am I the only one here who has no trouble keeping up a healthy relationship?” Thomas wondered aloud, clearly surprised the rest of them seemed to be struggling in that area, being the famous, young and moderately wealthy Quidditch players that they were. 

Sampson looked like she wanted to object, then thought better of it. 

“I mean, Seamus isn’t particularly happy that I’m trying out for England, what with him being Irish and all -”

“Brag about it, Thomas,” Flint said, glaring holes into the wall for some reason. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to, it’s just…” Thomas bit his lip, probably in an attempt to keep himself from babbling. 

“Don’t sweat it. If life has taught me anything, it’s that my taste in men is about as likely to get me into trouble as the Wigtown Wanderers are to end their season at the bottom of the League for the third consecutive year.” 

There was a slight chance that some of Oliver’s bitterness had seeped through. The more exhausted he was, the harder it got to rein in his emotions. 

“Ouch, captain. Who hurt you?” Sampson asked, looking like she was on the verge of pulling out her wand and hunting down the guilty party. 

“You don’t have to call me that anymore,” he reminded her, thoughts drifting to the upcoming announcement, “anyway, it’s not important.” 

He felt a sudden and fierce longing for the company of his friends - Percy’s calm rationality, George’s humorous observations, Angelina’s steady, reliable presence. 

Speaking of Angelina, she certainly would have made the tryouts if she hadn’t gotten pregnant. But there was no point in losing himself in hypothetical scenarios, and he was truly happy for her and George, and the peace they had found for themselves after the war. 

Siobhán was sharing a table with the rest of Robinson’s team, and she was too busy teasing Parish over something or other to notice the helpless looks Oliver was sending her way.

When he refocused his attention on the conversation at hand, he realised that they had moved on to a new target - Gareth. 

“You think he’s seeing anyone?” Odell wondered aloud, and Sampson nodded vehemently. 

Oliver didn’t feel like speculating over the love life of someone he considered a good friend, so he let his gaze wander again as he scraped the last remains of his dinner from his plate, and noticed that Flint was staring at him. Not at the picture on the wall behind him, or the window, or the cursed clock, no. Directly at him. There was that undecipherable look in his eyes again, the one that did weird things to Oliver’s guts. 

Making a decision, he shoved back his chair, stretched, and got up. 

“Aren’t you going to stay and celebrate with us? We were planning on talking Gareth into allowing each of us to have a bottle of Butterbeer. To toast, you know?” Sampson was watching him with something like disappointment in her wide brown eyes.

“Sorry, I’m too tired. I need to get some solid sleep in if I want to get up in time to finish my morning run before practice. But I wish you all a good night, tell Vosper to split my bottle evenly.” And with a small wave, he headed towards the hallway and the big staircase, ready to rest and recharge for what was to come. 

His fate would most likely not be decided until later tomorrow - Gareth definitely wasn’t giving them the afternoon off for nothing. Still, Oliver felt like he’d done everything in his power to make the line-up. If it hadn’t sufficed, well. There was nothing else up his sleeve. 

* * *

Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred during his last couple morning runs, so when Flint ambushed him on his return right outside the inn on Friday during the final minutes before sunrise, Oliver reacted understandably shocked.

Flint shoved him against the wall, hard, and held him there, panting slightly, face looking like he was done playing around. He could have fought Flint off, could have broken free if he wanted, but instead, he stood still, motionless, and waited for whatever was to come.

After all, this confrontation had been somewhat inevitable.

Flint reached into his robes, and for a second Oliver thought this was it, Flint was going to curse him, but when he directed the tip of his wand to his left sleeve and mumbled “ _ Diffindo _ ”, Oliver was left even more perplexed. 

Then Flint raised his arm and turned it, so Oliver got a good look at the inner side of his left forearm - which was empty. No Dark Mark, no tattoos, no scars - nothing but an expanse of pale skin and a small mole close to his elbow.

“See, that wasn’t so difficult now, was it? I don’t know whether you are simply a coward or too bloody  _ decent  _ to ask - you know, just after a game or something, pull me aside and go ‘So Flint, you join the Death Eaters or something?’” 

His tone was bitter and resigned, he dropped his arm back down to his side but didn’t step away. He was so close Oliver could smell the toothpaste on his breath. “Anyway, I’m done entertaining your bullshit.”

“I wasn’t...I didn’t want to-” Oliver struggled with his words, startled by the sudden turn things had taken and overwhelmed by the warmth Flint’s body exuded. 

“Yeah, I bet you didn’t want to know. We Slytherins are all the same after all - lying, cheating, conniving backstabbers, crawling in the dirt like snakes, not good enough for valiant war hero Oliver Wood, Merlin’s gift to Quidditch.” He spat out the words like they were venom - like they burnt his mouth and he couldn’t hold them in any longer. 

“Valiant what- what are you talking about? So maybe I didn’t confront you, but it was you who stopped replying to my letters when the Ministry fell. And then your parents-” 

Flint interrupted him again, looking chagrined this time. “My parents. That’s it, isn’t it? The Flints are loyal to the Dark Lord, so their only son must be, too. For your information, I went no contact because it was hard for me, okay? I went underground, had to leave everything behind, cut off the people I’d spent my whole life with up to that point. And in case they hunted me down, I didn’t want them to find anything that connected me to you. Then, when the war had ended, and the League started up again, you wouldn’t even look at me.” 

There was a swirl of controlled rage and pain in his grey eyes now, Oliver didn’t think he’d ever seen them quite so expressive. 

“I’m my own person, just like you. And just like you, all I ever wanted was to play Quidditch. I don’t give a toss about any of that pureblood garbage. None of that matters when you’re in the air, anyway.” 

Oliver snorted, a wave of his own frustration surging through him. “That’s why you moved back into Flint Manor as soon as they got sent to Azkaban, then? Because you wanted nothing to do with the heritage of the Sacred Twenty-Eight?” It was petty, and he knew it. Flint seemed so bloody sincere.

“Are you serious, Wood? It’s a fucking house. I’m hardly ever there. What about your family’s property? Aren’t the Woods purebloods as well? Sounds hypocritical, if you ask me.” He was sneering, and it really shouldn’t be this attractive. Oliver was hopeless. 

“I don’t live at home, and I’m no pureblood, either. My mum’s a Muggle,” he said, and it didn’t feel like a confession since he’d never made the decision to actively hide it. He’d never been ashamed - just mindlessly scared for her safety.

Flint, however, took it like a punch to the gut. He staggered back, understanding dawning on his proud features. Then he started laughing, and this time it sounded exactly the same as it had all those years ago on the Astronomy Tower, loud, raucous, reckless. 

“You’re telling me you’re a coward after all? You can hide behind your excuses, Wood, I don’t care. You know why? I can see right through them. Your mum’s a Muggle, so what?” Flint was staring directly into his eyes now, meeting his gaze head-on. 

“You weren’t afraid for her sake - or not only for her sake,” he quickly amended, “you were afraid you fell for the wrong guy. That you had somehow misjudged me and almost gotten involved with someone way too evil for your tastes. Maybe it made you feel like you betrayed your friends on some level. I don’t presume to know. Point is,” here he stabbed Oliver in the chest with his right index finger, directly above the heart, and reiterated. 

“Point is, after the war was over, when everything was said and done, you could have walked up to me at any moment and asked ‘Hey, Flint, did you get on your knees and suck Voldie’s cock like a good, obedient Slytherin?’ to which I would have replied ‘Damn, Wood, that’s fucking gross and a bit extreme, even for me. Also, it hurts to find out how little you think of me after all the years we’ve known each other.’ But you didn’t. And that, my friend, makes you a coward.”

Oliver flushed crimson. Whether that was due to attraction, embarrassment or disgust, he wasn’t entirely sure. What he was certain of, though, was that he’d prefer Flint to stand quite a bit further away when he put obscene amounts of emphasis on words like ‘cock’, so Oliver wouldn’t be forced to inhale his scent while he did it.

“First of all: what the bloody hell, Flint? Second of all: if I’m a coward, then so are you. You cut contact to ‘protect me?’ Sounds like a bunch of noble grandstanding. You could’ve come to the resistance, to me for help, you just didn’t want to appear weak. So you ran.” He’d crossed his arms in front of his chest, subconsciously mirroring the stance his mother adopted whenever she called him out on something. 

Flint seemed to mull this over for a couple seconds, allowing Oliver to catch his breath and calm down a bit. This entire situation was bizarre to him, yet he was glad they were finally dragging everything out in the open. Oliver had hated the distance between them - still, Flint was right - his fear had been bigger.

“You know what, Wood? Fine. Guess that leaves us at a stalemate, then. I don’t play chess, it’s dull as fuck, but I think this means we both lose.” His bitter words filled Oliver with a slow sense of dread, and as he watched Flint shrug and turn away, he made an executive decision.

Suddenly, being brave felt like the most natural thing in the world. He’d only been in love with Flint for - what - the last five years of his life? Neither of them got to walk away this time, Oliver would make sure of it. All the anger and fear and confusion in his head seemed small compared to the part of his heart that desperately  _ wanted _ , had wanted Flint for years, despite the self-hate and denial. Being brave felt good and right and easy, so-

“I like losing even less than I like being called a coward,” he said, then grabbed Flint’s arm and pulled him back, pulled him in closer than he’d been before. They were chest to chest, he could feel Flint’s biceps through the thin fabric of his sweatshirt. 

“Wow, a Gryffindor in denial? Colour me surprised-” Flint started. Then Oliver closed the last inch of space between their lips and kissed him. 

Flint didn’t pull back, didn’t push him away, in fact, he didn’t appear to be caught off guard at all. Instead, he was with Oliver every step of the way, hands fisted in whatever part of Oliver’s clothes they could reach, leaning into him, tipping them both back against the wall. 

Kissing Flint didn’t feel like flying, as he had expected - it was a lot more like falling. Hurtling towards the earth from an incredibly high altitude, unstoppable, uncontrollable. The impact was inevitable, and the timing uncertain. 

It stole his breath away, made him feel heavy and anchorless with desire and it was exhilarating. 

He had no idea what he wanted, only that he did, and badly. Flint seemed to have things a lot more figured out, the press of his lips against Oliver’s growing more and more demanding until Oliver opened his mouth wider and Flint licked into it. 

Oliver hadn’t kissed a lot of people in his life (his one-night-stands had been more interested in other activities), so he wasn’t really in a position to judge, but to him, the kiss felt amazing. When Flint moaned - a feral, desperate sound - he felt extremely validated in his opinion and kissed back harder, greedier. 

One of his hands travelled from Flint’s neck up to his hair. It was early, and he apparently hadn’t found the time to put any product in it, so it was soft to Oliver’s touch. He started to stroke his fingers through the short black strands, and Flint shivered almost imperceptibly. 

When they finally parted for air, Oliver grinned and whispered, “Does this mean I win?” into Flint’s ear, enjoying the small shudder he got out of it. 

“Don’t think it counts if I goaded you into it,” Flint replied at the same volume, his smile hidden because he was busy pressing his lips against Oliver’s pulse point, although it was evident in his tone. 

“Still, Flint, I’m sorry. I should have asked first,” Oliver admitted, a bit ashamed of himself. 

“Hmm, just ask next time. I think I’d like that,” he said, sounding terribly honest.

“However,” here he took a step back, eyes intent and serious, “you don’t get to call me  _ Flint _ anymore. If we’re doing this, that’s my condition. I won’t just be another one of your teammates, Oliver, I’ll be your fucking boyfriend. So, call me Marcus instead.”

The decision wasn’t anywhere close to difficult to make.

“Alright. It’s gonna take some getting used to, though. I’ve been referring to you as ‘Flint’ in my head for the last fourteen years.” Flint- no, Marcus shrugged and spread his arms in the universal gesture that said  _ sounds like a you-problem _ .

“Well, we all have to start somewhere. How about you give it a try?” There was nothing in his face that gave him away, but his tone was so ridiculously suggestive that Oliver had to fight another oncoming blush. 

“Fine,  _ Marcus _ , why don’t we take this inside?”

The smirk he got in return was easily worth the headache this was going to cost him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title of the chapter was taken from the song "All the Kings" by Editors


	4. and we're making our own thing

They ended up in Oliver’s room because it was closer and they had taken the stairs - Oliver had staunchly refused to Apparate. He was not going to Splinch himself thinking about snogging Marcus Flint, no, thank you. There was also practice to consider, and mentioning Quidditch seemed to be enough to convince Marcus, who eventually relented and dragged a laughing Oliver into the entrance hall with him. 

“Are you happy now?” he asked when the room door fell closed behind them with a resounding _ click _. 

Oliver immediately took the chance to shove him up against it and stepped between Marcus’ legs, hands on his shoulders. He inclined his head and made a show of pretending to frown thoughtfully, although the small smile tugging at his lips likely gave him away. 

“Not sure. Maybe I’ll find out if you let me kiss you again?” 

Marcus snorted. “Wow, if I’d known beforehand that you were gonna ruin the mood with corny one-liners, I would have thought twice about coming in here,” he said, while his hands slid up Oliver’s back and he pulled him in for a lingering kiss.

“There is,” Oliver whispered, nipping on Marcus’s lower lip, “a terrifically bad joke I could make about what you just said, but,” he sucked it into his mouth, enjoying the little noises Marcus made in his throat “for your benefit, I will refrain from making it.”

“How considerate. You’re such a fucking gentleman,” Marcus breathed, and a needy moan escaped him when Oliver let his fingers wander below the soft fabric of Marcus’s sweater, along the lines of his toned stomach.

“Yeah, haven’t you heard? I’m quite the catch,” he smiled mischievously into the kiss, then pressed his body against Marcus’s roughly, so the other man could feel how hard he already was, just from a bit of snogging. 

Marcus pulled at the hem of Oliver’s navy t-shirt. “Is your club going to be upset if I tear this?” he asked, voice gruff and impatient with want. “No wait, I don’t care.” And he ripped the offending garment off Oliver’s body with little difficulty. 

Merlin, he really shouldn’t find that as attractive as he did. 

“What a shame that your sweater is already fucked. I quite liked the colour, it brings out your eyes,” Oliver drew his wand and directed it at Marcus’s chest, murmuring the same Severing Charm Marcus had used on his sleeve earlier. 

Marcus was watching him, his own wand discarded on the floor somewhere, and there was a hungry spark in his look as he followed Oliver’s movements closely, pupils slightly dilated. Oliver inhaled sharply. This was going to kill him. 

Then he noticed a scar that ran across Marcus’ collarbone, dangerously close to his neck. He raised his wand a little and rested the tip on the thin strip of tissue. 

“What happened?” he asked Marcus, who was breathing heavily, eyes shut like he was trying to limit the amount of sensory impressions his body was currently exposed to.

“Slipped up in a duel with some Snatchers...you should’ve seen the other guy, though,” he chuckled, and his voice did _ things _to Oliver’s insides that he knew for a fact he’d never experienced before.

This whole picture wrecked him; Marcus was so open, so trusting, despite Oliver’s cowardice and his shitty behaviour. _ Fuck. _

He dropped his wand, and traced the scar with his fingers instead, keenly aware of his own deceptively unmarred skin. Oliver remembered every single wound Madam Pomfrey had healed after the battle was over, all the cuts and burns and the ugly bruise that had adorned his left leg. But he’d had help, while Marcus…

“Bed. Now,” he ordered, voice absolutely shot to hell. All he could think about was touching Marcus, pressing him down into the comfortable mattress, and feeling the life-affirming contact of skin on skin. 

“You’re so pushy,” Marcus complained, eyes fluttering open, though he didn’t protest when Oliver shoved him onto the bed and made short work of both their shoes and socks. His body language was intimate and inviting, he was flushed down to his shorts, the outline of his hard cock clearly visible, and his hair looked soft against the pillows. 

Oliver wanted nothing more than to join him in the sheets, so he did. Straddling Marcus’ legs, he looked down to meet that steady grey gaze, and they just breathed for a moment. Inhale, exhale, inhale.

Then Marcus lifted his head, and Oliver let himself sink into the kiss, strangely unhurried and gentle for all the desperate need filling the air between them. It turned fiercer fast, though - Marcus had his arms wrapped around him, holding their bodies close together, and Oliver revelled in the friction between them, loved the firmness of Marcus’s muscles beneath him.

The moment felt like a threshold to something, and Oliver was loath to end it, so he dragged it out as long as possible. Everything about this felt incredibly right to him; the heat that filled him in every place where their skin was touching, the simple sensation of being held like this - of being wanted.

When Oliver finally broke the kiss, Marcus had his eyes closed again, and he watched shamelessly, catalogued the healthy flush in Marcus’s cheeks and his glistening lips, mouth open, breathing hard.

“Enjoying the show?” Marcus asked, the husky tone of his voice sending pleasant shivers down Oliver’s spine. Dark lashes fluttered, then he met Oliver’s hungry stare with a leer of his own.

“Mhm,” he confirmed, fingers stroking through the strands of Marcus’s short black hair, and Oliver bent down to press his face into the crook of Marcus’s neck, inhaling his scent and licking a stripe along his throat, tasting the salt on his skin. 

His actions caused Marcus to lean his head back further, baring his neck to give Oliver better access. Oliver gasped at the sight, the obvious display of surrender and the implied trust sending a flash of hot want through him.

He let his mouth travel down Marcus’s face to his neck, then his chest, consciously aware that any love bite he might leave on the other man would make the shower after practice more uncomfortable for Marcus, so he remained careful with his licking and nibbling. 

Marcus’s hands were on his back again, stroking along his spine, settling into the spaces between his ribs. “You’re so bloody hot,” he stated, words simple and direct, and more than enough to give Oliver’s face a proper blush. 

Instead of replying, Oliver pressed his right hand against Marcus’s still clothed erection, started rubbing him through the fabric of his shorts, and was rewarded with a loud, unabashed whine for his efforts. 

“Want me to take care of that for you? Because I will. If you ask very nicely, that is,” he toyed with the seam of Marcus’s shorts, the tips of his fingers ghosting over the naked skin beneath. 

To his surprise, Marcus gripped his hand and held it there. “Fuck, W- Oliver, wait,” he licked his lips nervously and looked up at Oliver with something like apprehension. 

Oliver swallowed and drew his hand back, feeling slightly out of his depth. Had he done something wrong, something that upset Marcus? “Merlin, Marcus I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” Marcus interrupted him with an impatient wave of his hand.

“No, you should have. It’s not that I don’t- fuck. Look, I want to shag you, it’s just that I want a lot of other stuff, too. We only touched on this briefly downstairs, but-” he averted his eyes, addressing the ceiling when he next spoke. 

“This isn’t just a passing fancy for me, Oliver. I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you since my third year at Hogwarts.” 

And there it was. Bare, cards-face-up-on-the-table honesty, more effective than any Disarming Charm. Oliver was left utterly speechless, the atmosphere in the room around them noticeably shifting. He was at a loss, brain completely vacant, all he knew was that it felt like he just took a Bludger to the head in the best way possible. 

After a couple short seconds, he managed to recover from his stupor enough to notice that Marcus was watching him, face carefully blank. 

“Since your third year?” Oliver repeated dumbly, like some kind of oversized parrot. 

Marcus sighed. 

“You were never scared of me or made fun of my teeth. Not to my face, anyway. I think the first thing you ever said to me was ‘That was the sloppiest attempt at a Chelmondiston Charge I’ve ever seen, if you’re going to fly like that you might want to consider using your Comet to scrub the Great Hall instead.’ 

“This bratty twelve-year-old boy who only recently made the Gryffindor squad walks up to me and trash-talks me to my face like he’s never heard or cared about my reputation. ” 

He paused and shook his head like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “I was angry about it for weeks afterwards because the thing is - you were right. It was sloppy.”

Oliver smiled, and grabbed one of Marcus’s hands, casually interlinking their fingers. 

“Oh, I remember that. Slytherin versus Ravenclaw, the first match of the season. You almost fell off your broom, and the Quaffle hit Brady O’Shea right in the face. Then Terence Higgs lost you the game because he was too busy laughing to bother with the Snitch.”

When their eyes meet again, Marcus still seemed unsure, so Oliver squeezed his hand, determined to wipe that shade of insecurity off his face. 

“Listen, Fl- Marcus,” he coughed to hide his embarrassment at the slip-up, ”it’s not been quite as long for me, but. That note you wrote to me after Appleby signed you? ‘Guess I got tired of cheating after all’? Yeah. I realised I was kind of falling for you after that. Hard.”

Marcus hummed thoughtfully. He definitely looked a lot more content now, the anxious crease on his forehead had evened out. 

Oliver exhaled slowly, a bemused grin on his face. “Man, we’re awful at this.” 

It earned him a nod and a short, astonished laugh. “Maybe. At least we finally got this far. No thanks to you.”

There was no accusation in his tone, and even if there had been, Oliver had accepted that he probably deserved a little needling.

“Anyway, in case I haven’t made it clear enough - I do want to be your boyfriend, Marcus Flint,” Oliver said, squeezing his hand again. 

“My middle name’s Valerius, by the way. Just letting you know, so you can use it in your next ridiculous announcement,” Marcus deadpanned, the look in his eyes soft and teasing. 

“That’s a good name. Noble. Makes me want to kick your arse less.”

“Really?”

“No. But it’s better than mine, at least. Basil. You know, like the herb. Think my parents were high or something.”

Marcus started laughing Oliver’s favourite laugh, which was the one thing that stopped him from boxing his boyfriend in the shoulder. 

They went back to kissing, though it had lost all of its urgency, the simmering want had well and truly dissipated. Instead, they laid down on the mattress together, enjoying some peace and quiet before they inevitably had to get up and shower so they could make it to breakfast in a timely manner. 

Oliver’s head rested on Marcus’s bare chest, and he was watching its steady rise and fall, fingers drawing lazy patterns on the skin. 

“Were you ever in love with Weasley?” 

“What?!” Oliver felt genuinely perplexed by the unexpected change in topics. He could feel Marcus shrug below him.

“First we don’t fuck, and then you ask me about my fling with Percy Weasley? You are so bloody strange. Not that I mind. Please warn a man before you throw conversational curveballs his way.” 

“You’re a Keeper, learn to adapt. I’m asking because I want to be prepared for the eventuality that his five siblings show up and challenge me to fight for my honour. Rumour has it that Ginny Weasley knows some nasty hexes.” 

Then, after a few seconds, “Nah, I’m messing with you. Just curiosity, I guess. I like hearing you talk about yourself.” 

Marcus started running a hand through Oliver’s hair in what Oliver assumed was meant as a soothing gesture but ended up being mostly distracting. This, however, didn’t keep him from gently headbutting Marcus when he was about to withdraw his hand again.

“To answer your question, I might have been, on some level. I definitely was physically attracted to him, and it was easy to imagine our future together. Percy’s a linear and rational person. We’re also both very driven. He was aiming for a ministry job, I was working my arse off to become a professional Quidditch player, so we each felt acknowledged in our efforts. There was an understanding between us. 

“I never lost any sleep over him, though. And when Percy told me that he was sorry, that we had to break up since he wasn’t gay and he’d feel bad if he kept ‘leading me on’, I wasn’t heartbroken about it. We went back to being just friends, and I was completely fine with that.”

“Just to clarify: you did lose sleep over me, though, right?” Marcus asked, smug grin audible in his voice. His fingers wandered over the ridges in Oliver’s spine, slowly and deliberately, like he was committing them to memory.

Oliver thought about the years of longing, of fear and anger, the sleepless nights during the war. “More than I care to remember,” he mumbled, and hid his face in Marcus’s chest. 

* * *

“We should probably get up. I may not have a screaming clock, but I’m an early riser, I know my 7 o’clocks when I see them,” he remarked a short while later. The biggest downside of an eastward facing window was that the sunrays eventually got too insistent to ignore. 

Marcus groaned. “Fine, I’m actually kind of hungry. Although I can’t say that I’m looking forward to flying formations again, that shit is bad enough with a coordinated team, never mind a bunch of headless chickens with something to prove.” 

“Cheer up, maybe Vosper will let us stay in the teams we formed for the practice tourney,” Oliver said, cautiously optimistic. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, _ captain _ ?” And, oh, _ okay _, maybe he enjoyed a little too much how that word rolled off of Marcus’s tongue when he was sitting half-naked in Oliver’s bed. 

He shuddered, and Marcus pulled him into a filthy kiss. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you perk up like a Goblin at the sight of a freshly-minted Galleon every time someone called you by that title. I’m not complaining, mind you.” 

He punctuated his words with a second kiss, this one not quite as suggestive as the first one, though equally as passionate. 

“Authority looks good on you.”

Oliver moaned wistfully and pulled away. “Marcus, we really need to get ready. If you want, we can shower together to save time, but-”

Marcus raised his eyebrows. “If we walk into that shower together, you can forget about breakfast altogether,” he stated, matter-of-fact, and stole yet another kiss. 

“You should save me a seat at your table, though.” With that, he grabbed his clothes and his wand, cast a quick Mending Charm on his sweater, and opened the door. 

“See you in like...twenty minutes.” And he walked out into the hallway, utterly uncaring whether anyone saw him leave a teammate’s room in a suspicious state of undress. If Oliver were the type to swoon, he probably would have. 

* * *

They were among the last players to arrive for breakfast - late, especially for Oliver’s standards.

Oliver made it downstairs a whole five minutes before Marcus, and when he saw that Siobhán’s table still had two empty seats, he immediately walked over and dropped down into a chair. 

“You look...oddly happy. Are formations that exciting to you, or did you get a really good night of sleep?” she enquired, half-eaten beans on toast instantly forgotten. 

“I just had a great morning,” he replied and grabbed two slices of toast and a platter filled with pork sausages, using his fork to manoeuvre six of them onto his plate.

“How is your arm?” she enquired between bites, and Oliver had to think for a second, confused by what she was talking about before he remembered the Bludger hit.

“Oh, that’s fine. After Mr Diggory was done with it, not even the bruise was left.”

When Marcus Apparated into the room a little bit later, wearing a fresh t-shirt and a different pair of shorts, he looked around until he spotted Oliver, then came over to join them. His black hair was still wet, and he smelled faintly of citrus.

“You ever just...take a very nice shower?” he asked, apropos of nothing. 

Oliver had to fight hard to keep himself from blushing. There was no way he had filled that sentence with this much innuendo by accident. 

Siobhán seemed to agree, she shook her head in slight disbelief and turned to Marcus. 

“Yeah, but I normally don’t go around telling people about that. Not at breakfast, anyway,” she amended, and they shared a grin. 

Marcus sat down to Oliver’s left, and as soon as he was seated, he pressed his leg against Oliver’s. It felt nice - a simple, inconspicuous way to touch, especially since they were both wearing shorts. Marcus’s skin was warm against his, and he felt the corners of his mouth lift a little as he chewed on his fork-full of perfectly seasoned fried egg. 

“The sausages are amazing, you should try them,” Siobhán said to Marcus, forking a couple more onto her plate, “ask Oliver, he’s had some.” 

Both men snickered, and Oliver was glad that he’d swallowed his food in time because death by asphyxiation seemed like a terrible way to go. 

“You two are impossible! I didn’t mean it like _ that _.” Though she tried to put on an air of exasperation, Siobhán was clearly amused, if the glitter in her eyes was any indication. 

“Sorry, Wymond. And you’re right, the sausages _ are _quite tasty,” Oliver conceded when he had calmed down, and he offered Marcus the platter. His boyfriend accepted the dish after a brief moment of contemplation, quiet mirth still evident in his laughter lines. 

They ate in silence for a while, the noise of chatter from the other tables and the occasional scraping of cutlery on porcelain filling the air around them. 

At the table next to theirs, Morgan and Hawkins were debating heatedly whether the lack of competition Randolph Spudmore currently faced on the pro-Quidditch broomstick market was beneficial or detrimental to the sport. 

Two tables over, Gareth and Jude Harrington were engaging in some good, old-fashioned banter, each praising the merits of his Quidditch club and pointing out flaws in the other’s team. Gareth had the upper hand, though that was mainly because his team was currently at the top of the League, with Ballycastle playing catch-up in fourth place. 

Oliver closed his eyes and let himself relish in the fact that - right now - he felt truly content. No matter how this week would end, he was surrounded by people who loved Quidditch almost as much as he did, some of them in the process of becoming fast friends, and now he had _ Marcus _by his side. 

“You falling asleep on me now?” Speaking of-

“Marcus, please stop stealing my sausages. If you want more, I’m sure the kitchen would be more than happy to indulge you.” He batted Marcus’s fingers away, then grabbed the bottle of pumpkin juice to refill his glass. 

It took him a second to realise that Siobhán was staring at him, mouth open in shock. 

“Did you just...Oliver Wood, I am appalled and offended! In all the years we’ve played together, you’ve refused to address me by anything other than my surname, and here comes Marcus bloody Flint, steals your precious breakfast food, and suddenly you’re on a first-name basis? What happened to your principles?” 

Though Oliver could tell her outrage was largely exaggerated, he had the faint suspicion that she was doing it to cover up some of the hurt that was seeping into her gaze. Siobhán wasn’t the kind of person that showcased her vulnerabilities if she could help it.

Marcus shrugged. “Guess I’m just special,” he commented casually, grinning at the sausage platter as it magically refilled itself. 

Oliver threw a folded napkin at him. “You’re special, alright. A special kind of prat.” 

Without looking up, Marcus plucked a grape from one of the fruit bowls and chucked it straight at Oliver. “Careful there, Oliver, don’t start anything you’re not willing to finish.”

Oliver sighed, but he didn’t even bother to attempt to hide his smile.

“Wait - are you two dating?” 

He appreciated Siobhán’s effort to lower her voice, not that anybody seemed to be paying much attention to them, out of the players that were still present, most had their own conversations to focus on. 

At his nod, she clapped him on the back encouragingly, like he’d just taken a difficult test and she was confident that he’d passed with flying colours. 

“Since when?” 

“Well,” Marcus started, then paused to chase a bite of food down with a mouthful of pumpkin juice, “technically since this morning, although it could have happened a lot sooner if we’d gotten over ourselves.” 

She looked like she wanted more of an explanation, and Oliver was willing to give her one - just not in the current situation. So he waved her off and cocked his head to indicate the cafeteria and its occupants. 

Understanding dawned on her face, and she seemed to accept his refusal to elaborate, yet he was all too aware she would hunt him down later and demand the whole story.

They finished their meal in amicable silence, and when they had finished, and their plates were empty, the three of them got up together, ready to face another practice session head-on. 

* * *

When he and Marcus left the locker room and headed onto the pitch, brooms in hand and practice robes properly fastened, Gareth was already there. Obviously in a great mood, their captain was whistling a song by the Cracked Cauldrons as he scribbled notes into his well-loved playbook with a crow feather quill. 

“Do you listen to _ any _music that doesn’t blow your ears clean off, Vosper?” Robinson asked as she walked over to stand next to Marcus. 

Gareth looked up and gave her his brightest smile. “Now where would be the fun in that? Besides, the Weird Sisters aren’t that bad, they’ve got a couple nice ballads you’d probably enjoy.”

“Is it true that you and the lead singer of the Cauldrons are dating?” Lennox Campbell asked, and Oliver was certain that he could detect a note of jealousy in Campbell’s tone. Jude Harrington snorted. 

Audrey Duval was quite popular among the magical population of Europe; she received a lot of attention from all genders, though many of her admirers didn’t care for the loud and aggressive music her band was known for. 

This had led to conflicts in the past because fans of the band had had difficulties acquiring tickets to concerts - Audrey’s admirers had bought them en masse, hoping for the chance to meet her face to face. Not even a public statement from Audrey herself, wherein she announced that she was in a long-time relationship, had been enough to dissuade the army of “Duvallians”, as they referred to themselves. 

With a heavy sigh, Gareth stowed his playbook and quill away, and addressed the crowd that hung on his lips, no doubt hungry for some juicy gossip.

“You know, this is the second time this week someone brought up the hogwash Skeeter calls journalism, and I’m really disappointed. I thought that, as professional Quidditch players whose private life is subject to constant speculation, you lot would be a bit more careful when it comes to taking tabloid nonsense at face value.”

Oliver couldn’t help but agree wholeheartedly. “Yeah, I can’t wait for her to dissect the entire line-up, once Gareth’s choices become public knowledge tomorrow,” he whispered in Marcus’s ear, and Marcus grimaced. 

“Hope she doesn’t somehow sneak into the stadium. The _ Prophet _ always receives an invite, of course, but I’d largely prefer to read Jaswinder Kaur’s report. She, at least, knows what she is talking about.”

“Skeeter isn’t always wrong, though. She was the one who broke that scandal about the Caerphilly manager embezzling sponsorship money,” Ada Slater reminded Gareth, and Oliver was starting to wonder whether Slater was somewhat of a closet Skeeter-fan. 

“Maybe not, but she has a history of maliciousness and bad faith, and she is certainly wrong about the nature of my relationship with Audrey, who has a perfectly charming girlfriend, by the way. Skeeter has been trying to dig up dirt on me since the day I was made captain of this team, and personally? I cannot wait for her next attempt.”

* * *

When the actual practice finally began, Oliver was pleasantly surprised by the fact that he didn’t have to bring up the idea of using the pre-existing teams to fly formations to Gareth, as Sampson beat him to it. While he took some convincing, Gareth eventually agreed.

So Team Wood took up their positions behind their enthusiastic Seeker, and she promised that she wouldn’t overdo it with the speed, laughter in her eyes. 

Although five of the seven players on his team had been on his original formation group, the atmosphere between all of them was a completely different one now. They had developed a good understanding of everyone’s flying styles, their preferred tempo, and the non-verbal communication had seen vast improvements over the mess from last Saturday.

By the end of the practice session, they had managed to more or less seamlessly switch between three different formations, and from the looks of it, the two other teams had seen similarly positive results. 

Gareth seemed ecstatic with this turn of events, he sent everybody off to lunch with glowing praise and informed them that the final announcement would take place at five p.m. sharp. Players were instructed to meet on the pitch again, but there would be no need to get changed or bring their brooms. 

* * *

Neither Gareth nor any of the Committee members were present at lunch, as they had retreated to make their final decisions. 

Oliver was sharing a table with Marcus, Sampson and Parish, of all people, so the volume was at least twice as high as at all other tables in the cafeteria. The kitchen had decided to provide every table with enough ingredients to make their own sandwiches, and the two Seekers constantly argued about anything, from the matter of superior sandwich toppings, to who had taken the last piece of Cheddar cheese, to the question of fitting birthday gifts for Sampson’s mother, and, okay, _ what _?

“I did not see that one coming,” Marcus remarked to Oliver, as he watched the two younger players debate how to best impress your significant other’s parents. “They look like they’re about three seconds away from issuing a formal duel request.” 

Sampson and Parish were way too invested in their argument to notice the surprised reactions.

“Do you think they’re going to get into an actual fight later? Only one can make it onto the starting line-up, after all,” Oliver asked, only half-joking. 

Marcus seemed to give the question some consideration, then shrugged. “Honestly, it looks to me like they feed off of the competitive energy, so they should be fine,” he watched as Sampson snatched a pickle from right under Parish’s nose, and successfully managed to defend her ham and mustard sandwich from retaliation. 

“If we’re talking bets though, I wouldn’t worry about Sampson, she’s got this. Also, do you want some tea?”

* * *

Most of their afternoon was spent playing Exploding Snap in the fireplace room with Siobhán, Morgan, Harrington (who got caught cheating twice and was subsequently replaced by Dean Thomas), and Roger Davies. 

Davies was, without a doubt, the best Exploding Snap player Oliver had ever seen; he didn’t lose a single game and won roughly half of the total amount of rounds played. Morgan, however, was the polar opposite - she struggled with memorization, and, if it weren’t for her fast reflexes, she would have lost just about every game. 

When they got bored, Thomas pulled out his own standard 52-card deck and attempted to teach them a popular Muggle card game called Thirty-one. Although he’d forgotten some of the rules, Oliver was able to help out, and together, they got most of the important aspects down. 

Robinson and Hawkins joined their group a little later, and by the time four p.m. rolled around, most of the players were gathered around the fireplace, the atmosphere friendly and relaxed. Not everyone could play at the same time - they didn’t have anywhere nearly enough cards for that - but people were taking turns, sometimes even tagging each other in during active rounds.

When it came time to return to the pitch for the announcement, everybody got to their feet. Some people exchanged looks, others reassuring touches and hand gestures. There were excitement and agitation in the air, with a distinct aftertaste of anxiety.

Oliver and Marcus nodded at each other, then Marcus pulled out his wand, and Oliver entwined their fingers. He wasn’t necessarily fond of Side-Along Apparition, yet he wanted to have Marcus next to him for this. Not that he was overly worried, Oliver simply enjoyed the amount of intimacy contained in such a simple touch.

* * *

As it was only late afternoon, the sun hadn’t set yet, and still illuminated the pitch. The goalposts threw long shadows over the grass, and a couple wayward clouds obscured the sun occasionally. It was a tad too warm for Oliver’s tastes, and he was glad that he’d opted for a tank top after practice. 

Gareth was standing in the middle of the pitch, the three Committee members merely ominous presences behind him. He had raised himself to his full height, which was pretty imposing compared to his usual, more relaxed slouching. 

Oliver had never seen Gareth look so - regal, for lack of a better description. He was wearing his formal, official England robes, the black captain’s armband wrapped around his left biceps in accordance with League regulations. 

Every trace of joviality had vanished from his face, solely his hair remained that positively venomous shade of bright green (the last time Oliver had seen his natural hair colour had been at Gareth’s graduation; he’d worn his traditional black robes and Ravenclaw tie then, hair the exact same shade of golden blond as his older brother’s). 

“Welcome to the culmination of your hard work and dedication,” he began, indicating all of them with a sweeping hand gesture, “let me start this off by saying that all four of us were incredibly impressed by what you brought to the table.” The Committee members nodded their assent.

“Now, as you all know, a Quidditch team consists of seven players, and we invited twenty of you to compete for these spots. No matter how much I’d like for things to be different, not everyone could make it. Of course, you were aware of that from the beginning, so I’m not going to do any of us a disservice and apologise.” Gareth let his eyes wander over the gathered players, the look in his brown eyes grave and solemn. 

“Every single one of you is extremely talented. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be standing before me at this very moment. But the six players we ended up picking demonstrated qualities that go beyond that; qualities I’m looking for when I’m choosing who I want to enter the World Cup with. Ingenuity, passion, reliability, prudence, discernment, adaptability.

“I’m going to give you the six names of the players who provided me with the puzzle pieces I need in order to form the English National Quidditch team into a fearsome opponent. When your name is called, please step forward and accept your official robes. They will have your surname and number on the back. Numbers have been assigned according to your position this year, and go from one to seven. Requests for random numbers will no longer be accepted, I’m sorry.” He didn’t look particularly apologetic. 

Sampson softly elbowed Oliver. “I’m betting an entire year’s supply of Chocolate Frogs that the reason we don’t get to pick numbers is that, when we did it at Tutshill, three players had to draw lots to determine who got to wear the sixty-nine and Gareth lost to Tarik LaSalle,” she stated in a hushed voice, smirking. 

Flint, who’d also heard her, had trouble holding back his laughter. “Sounds about right, if you ask me.”

Gareth fixed all three of them with an unimpressed glare. 

“I will begin with the Keeper position, followed by the Beater who’s going to be my partner in the coming year, then the Chasers, and, finally, I will announce England’s new Seeker. So, without further ado, Oliver Basil Wood, please take these robes, you earned them.” 

Oliver walked over to Gareth feeling like he was in a daze. This was it, his goal realised in a single phrase. Years of hard work, of dizzying highs and agonising lows. Years of weighing the cost of victory against the pain of defeat, holding on to the belief that one day, he would make it. 

_Just like that?_ _It’s that simple? _

He stood in front of Gareth, accepted the red and white garments, and unfolded them with steady hands. On the back, it said _ Wood _ and _ 1 _in bold, golden lettering that gleamed in the late afternoon sun. 

It was among the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen, and he pressed the robes to his face and inhaled. There was nothing special about the smell, of course, but, to Oliver, it was an important part of the impression he wanted to preserve in his memory. 

Gareth gave him a hefty pat on the back, then moved on to announce the next player. 

“Number two, Siobhán Breda Wymond.” She stepped forward and grabbed Gareth’s hand, shaking it firmly before she took her robes.

“Thank you, thank you so much, this means _ everything _,” she whispered, and big tears started to run down her cheeks in a rare display of vulnerability. 

Oliver pulled her aside and into a tight hug as Gareth replied, “No need to thank me, Wymond, you did that all by yourself.”

“Next up are the Chasers. Number four, Valmai Georgeanna Morgan.” 

Morgan accepted her robes in the same way she scored on Keepers - self-composed and without hesitation. Her posture was ramrod straight, and her expression carefully blank. 

When she examined her name and number on the back, a small, triumphant smile stole onto her face, though she was quick to hide it. Then she joined Oliver and Siobhán, curious to see who else was going to make it. 

“Roger Emmanuel Davies, you’re number five, congratulations!”

Roger Davies stumbled backwards, eyes open wide with shock. Apparently, he hadn’t expected this at all. During the practice matches, he’d been on Harrington’s team, the group with the worst record out of all three. 

However, Oliver recalled his persistence, his determination in front of the goalposts, and the hard-to-predict shots he had in his repertoire. There was no question in his mind that Davies was deserving of this.

Gareth beckoned him forward, a patient look on his face. Harrington, who was standing to Davies’s left, gave him an encouraging pat on the back. “C’mon mate, I know that Gareth is ugly enough to make you want to keep your distance, but those robes aren’t gonna pick themselves up.” 

Davies rewarded his efforts with a weak chuckle and approached Gareth, face flushed red with embarrassment. As soon as he held his robes, he pressed them to his chest protectively and hurried over in a relatively unsuccessful attempt to hide behind Siobhán.

“Number six, Marcus Valerius Flint.” 

Like the first time he’d worn his England practice robes, his movement was all-natural confidence, as though he was merely taking his rightful place in the National team. The difference was, this time Oliver allowed himself to look, to admire the way Marcus’s eyes shone with quiet satisfaction, and how the corners of his mouth curled up at the sight of his name in gold. 

With his robes in hand, he immediately made his way over to Oliver, intentionally knocking their shoulders together as he walked past him to stand on his other side. Oliver grinned at him - a simple, joyful grin, and it widened when he noticed that Marcus couldn’t help but return it. 

There was a bubble inside him that swelled with every passing second, it radiated happiness with an intensity that Oliver had never experienced before. He thought about his Patronus, a fierce snow leopard, and mentally substituted the memory he used to summon it (Gryffindor’s Quidditch House Cup win during his seventh year) with the current moment. 

“Last, but certainly not least, I have a Seeker position to fill. Number seven, Patricia Charlene Sampson, would you please do me the honours of relieving me of these robes?” 

Gareth’s smile was filled with pride as he handed the robes to his Tutshill teammate, and it was obvious that he wanted to give her a hug, yet wasn’t comfortable doing so because he hadn’t hugged any of the other five. 

Sampson was far less reserved about it, she fist-pumped and shouted “Yes!” at the top of her lungs, then she threw herself at her captain, new robes and all, and pulled him into what looked like a potentially bruising embrace. 

Even the Committee members, who had watched over the proceedings as impartial observers, seemed affected by Sampson’s boundless enthusiasm. Oliver caught the strict, usually guarded Selina Tate attempting to hide a smile behind the sleeve of her ceremonial robes.

Once Gareth had gotten Sampson to calm down somewhat, she also joined Oliver and the others. To Oliver’s surprise, she hugged him tightly as well, and he awkwardly petted the short Seeker’s head, careful not to mess with her springy curls too much. 

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I need to announce a couple other things,”

Gareth raised his voice in an effort to gain back some of the lost attention, a big part of the players that hadn’t been chosen were currently dealing with their disappointment, and only reluctantly turned towards him as they heard him speak. 

“The seven people who made it onto England’s reserve line-up are Kelsey Alexis Robinson, Dean Isaac Thomas, Hunter Jacinthe Allard, Lynette Meredith Sharpe, Diana Isolde Odell, Noboru Jasper Hawkins, and Neil Mortimer Parish. You will be invited to participate in practice sessions and training camps along with the starting line-up, and your presence is requested at every one of our matches. 

“Players on the reserve team, as well as everybody whose name has not been called, have the rest of the evening off. I want to reiterate that none of you lacked the talent required to make the team, and I also want to remind you that this isn’t your last chance. There will come another World Cup, another opportunity to prove yourselves, so keep working hard, and you may very well find yourself invited to another tryout. 

“Tomorrow morning after breakfast, I will officially dismiss you, though you’re of course welcome to stay and support us during our practice game versus Scotland. Thank you and goodnight! To the six people who made the starting line-up, please rejoin me on the pitch after dinner. We won’t have a lot of time to prepare, but the Scots have always been formidable rivals, and I intend to receive them as such.”

With that, he walked off the pitch, Committee members in tow and the rest of the crowd slowly dispersed as players returned to the inn for the promised dinner. 

* * *

At dinner, the atmosphere was hard to really get a read on. It was a mix of disappointment and happiness and all the ugly shades in-between, as players were struggling with strong emotions. 

Those who had made the team didn’t know how to console those who hadn’t without it coming across as grossly patronizing and more than a few of the congratulations Oliver received tasted of poorly hidden bitterness and resentment. 

Three new groups had started to form as they hastily shoved tables together - Oliver’s new teammates minus Gareth had set up camp over by the windows, while the seven players that had gone empty-handed were huddled up by the wall on the opposite side of the room. The members of the reserve team were stuck in an awkward sort of no man’s land, contenting themselves with two tables smack in the middle of the room. 

He sighed. The palpable envy and display of poor sportsmanship reminded him of the old Paisley conflict. His good mood was rapidly fading. This was, without a doubt, his least favourite part of the professional Quidditch player life.

Oliver was painfully aware that nothing in his power could change anything about the situation, trying to show compassion would only make things worse. 

Surprisingly enough, and to Oliver’s delight, it was Jude Harrington who ended up crossing the great divide first. Many eyes followed the Ballycastle Keeper as he shoved back his chair, stated, “Merlin’s bloody breeches, this is ridiculous!” got up and walked over to where Oliver and the other England players (just _ thinking _it still felt alien to him) were sitting. 

Harrington dropped down into one of the vacant chairs, went on to pour himself a glass of Bouncing Bulb fizz from the untouched bottle, and downed half of it in one go. 

“Ahh, that was refreshing. Anyway, Wood, congratulations on making the team. My grandfather would probably offer to shake your hand right about now, but I’m not much of a ‘grand gestures’ person, so you’ll just have to accept it and move on.” 

“That’s alright with me, thanks for the sentiment, I guess,” Oliver replied, meeting Harrington’s serious green gaze. 

He considered what he knew about the other man. Harrington was the oldest player here, beating even Gareth by two whole years. Not only was he Ballycastle’s Keeper, but he was also their captain, and he’d filled the position for the last four years, dating back to before the war, similar to Wallace. 

According to a profile the _ Prophet _ had published on him a couple seasons ago, he’d dropped out of Hogwarts after failing his O.W.L.s, but Oliver still recalled vague memories of a saucy Slytherin fifth year with mouse-brown hair and a reputation for bullying unsuspecting first and second years with Jelly-Brain Jinxes. 

After that, Harrington had reportedly gone on to play amateur Quidditch, until the Wasps had recruited him to play for their League team. During the winter break in ‘95, the Bats had bought him out for an undisclosed sum, and almost immediately promoted him to captain after a very public falling-out with their previous captain, Nelson Hume. 

He’d played Keeper for England before - though he’d had to sit out the World Cup in ‘98 due to a number of heavy magical burns he sustained on his left arm. From what Oliver had seen, the nasty scars remained, and Harrington didn’t seem to care, for he never went out of his way to cover them up. 

Additionally, Oliver knew that, despite appearances, Harrington was close to Gareth, so he felt safe granting him some degree of trustworthiness. 

“You’ve played under Vosper before, what exactly is he like as a captain?” Oliver asked, careful not to appear too pushy. The last thing he wanted was to scare him off. 

Harrington laughed, a sound not unlike that of the call of a spotted hyena. 

“Gareth? He’s quite an intense bloke. When it comes to England, that is. How he runs his League team, I wouldn’t presume to know. But it’s good to see he wasn’t lying about you, Wood.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Why? What did he say?” 

“That you’re the type to think ahead, to look out for others, among other things. He also gushed over your Keeper stats, which is exactly when I tuned out. Gareth has this terrible tendency to get lost in details when he analyses, and, personally, I cannot stomach that shit without alcohol.”

“If you’re not looking at the stats, how do you determine which players to sign?” Morgan, who had quietly listened up to this point, enquired from Harrington’s other side, her curiosity definitely piqued. 

“Oh, our manager does most of the stat-checking. My main focus is on whether a player has the grit required to really shine in the League. Take Slater, for example, Cunningham thought she was too young to recruit, too inexperienced. When I look at her, all I can see is the raw potential she has as a Beater. Sure, she’s prone to rashness and unnecessary risk-taking, but she’s also entirely unafraid and rarely hesitates.”

Harrington refilled his glass, which was empty again, and continued.

“I like players with distinct styles and good instinct. Roger here,” he nodded towards Davies, who sat further down the table and seemed to greatly enjoy his serving of roast beef with potatoes, “is another perfect example. Few other Chasers in the League can compete with his repertoire of shots. By the way, while we’re talking about this, Morgan, if you ever get tired of the Harpies, just send me an owl.” 

He gave her a conspiratorial wink, and her expression grew thoughtful like she was genuinely considering it. 

“We were interested in signing Flint as well, but for some reason, he blew us off in favour of Appleby, of all teams.” 

Marcus chuckled darkly. “England would have to burn to the ground before the day comes where I sign with an Irish team, no matter how far north of the border its home stadium may be located.” 

Merlin, but Oliver _ adored _him. 

“Your loss,” Harrington said amicably, and shrugged, “anyway, I’m going to go and harass the kitchen for some Firewhiskey. Since I won’t be playing tomorrow, Gareth has no right to keep me from the good stuff. Make sure you don’t go too easy on him, or he’ll lose his edge.” 

And with that, he emptied his glass, got up, and left. 

Siobhán followed his departure with her eyes, forehead creased in a contemplative frown. 

“Odd fellow. There were rumours about him, you know? After the war. Apparently, his father, a prominent Death Eater, used the Imperius Curse on him in order to force him to join up. When the Curse broke, he tried to burn the Dark Mark off his arm, and _ that’s _ where the scars are from.”

“Rumours, huh?” 

Marcus looked visibly upset, shoulders tense in a way they hadn’t been before, and he was clinging to the cutlery for dear life. Oliver thought about what Marcus had told him, about running away from the war. He reached out, and gently placed a hand on Marcus’s left forearm, waiting for him to relax again. It took a couple seconds. 

When Oliver turned to Siobhán, she looked slightly guilty. 

“Duncan told me the last time we played Ballycastle. No idea where he got it from, though it does seem believable.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if his father was rotting in an Azkaban cell right next to my parents,” Marcus stated coldly, grey eyes filled with nothing but burning hatred.

“Is this really an appropriate topic for our celebration dinner?” Sampson chimed in, voice unnaturally bright, “look at the reserve players, they have the right idea!”

Indeed, the tables in the middle of the cafeteria were awash with the sound of lively chatter. Thomas, Hawkins, and Odell seemed to be engaged in a passionate conversation about Quidditch fouls, and Parish - of all people - had somehow managed to convince aloof Kelsey Robinson to loosen up a little, she was even smiling at whatever joke he’d just told her. 

“You’ve got a point, let’s drop the subject. Who are you going to tell first?” Oliver asked, absolutely willing to lighten up the mood.

She was confused for an instant, then realisation dawned. 

“Oh, that I made the team? My grandmother. She gifted me my very own broom when I was five, paid for it completely out of her own pocket. Both my parents had their hands full with my twin sisters at the time, so she decided to give me flight lessons to make up for it.” 

The memory brought a smile to her face and chased away the worried lines around her mouth. 

“And you, Wood? There’s bound to be someone you can’t wait to clue in.”

He was about to answer when Siobhán interrupted him.

“That one’s easy, his mum! She comes to a lot of our games, and he always ensures that we’re keeping a seat reserved for her, even when she can’t make it. It’s really sweet!” 

Oliver’s face was suddenly very hot, he could _ feel _ the blush spread, and he instantly knew that resistance was futile. His skin was most likely beet red already. 

“My dad really enjoys watching the games with her, he says she’s got a lot of interesting insights to share, which reminds me - Oliver, we have to ask Gareth about tickets for England’s first match. They’ll be so excited!”

Her genuine enthusiasm was contagious, and he couldn’t help but grin at the thought of his mum and Mr Wymond cheering for them from the stands, waving cheesy England banners with gaudy drawings of dragons on them.

He looked up just in time to catch Marcus watching him, something incredibly soft in his gaze. Oliver took his hand and intertwined their fingers below the table, causing Marcus to avert his eyes to hide whatever expression he didn’t want Oliver to see.

They shared cheerful anecdotes for a bit longer until dinner ended and they had to return to the pitch. All of them were looking forward to what would likely be their final session of practice before the game against Scotland on the next day, the first game where they’d be wearing their official robes.

* * *

Gareth was already waiting when they arrived, sitting on the grass, head leaned back against one of the goalposts. The sun was finally setting, and his attention was directed towards the horizon, where various colours were warring for dominance. Next to him on the pitch lay a piece of paper filled with hasty, uneven letters, which he quickly grabbed and shoved into the pockets of his robes as soon as he noticed their presence. 

He seemed oddly subdued for such a special occasion, almost like he’d had an impromptu confrontation with a horde of Dementors, and when he put on a welcoming smile, there was certain tiredness to it that he couldn’t quite suppress. To be perfectly honest, it was more of a welcoming grimace. 

“What was that letter?” 

Davies’s question seemed to shake Gareth from his revery somewhat, and he raised himself to his full height, straightening his shoulders and widening his stance like he was itching for a fight, only that his face told an entirely different story.

“A resignation. You see, a Quidditch captain, like most leaders and decision-makers, has to live with the weight of his choices, the consequences of his actions. My job comes with tons of responsibilities,” he swallowed, licked his lips nervously, then continued on.

“This was given to me by someone I respect a lot, as both a player and a friend. We don’t always see eye to eye, yet at the end of the day, this person is someone I don’t want to lose. They’re making it very difficult to hold on sometimes, but such is life, I guess. Sorry if I seem a tad upset, just give me a moment to gather myself.”

When he walked a short distance away, presumably to regain his composure, mumbling to himself about ‘prideful gits’, Morgan turned to Siobhán and mouthed _ Harrington _ questioningly. The look Siobhán shot back was easy enough to understand - _ your guess is as good as mine _. 

Sampson, however, lowered her head and avoided everybody’s eyes, so it was obvious that she knew more. Oliver hoped fervently that no one would confront her about it. 

In an attempt to distract the other five, Oliver started a discussion with Marcus on the likelihood that Scotland’s new team was going to rely on their defensive strengths again, as had kind of become a running theme over the past couple years. To his credit, Marcus instantly caught on and seemed content enough to play his part. 

When Gareth returned, there was no sign of his earlier distress, his smile looked real enough, though his agitation was still evident in the way his hands occasionally fiddled with the buttons on his robe. 

Oliver watched as his captain pulled out his coveted black playbook and flipped it open. 

The first thing he noticed were the detailed drawings of tiny dragons at the bottoms of every single page, as they had clearly been drawn using an Anima Quill. 

Every single dragon was moving like it was truly alive; some were curled up to sleep, others had little smoke clouds coming out of their nostrils, and a few were fluttering up and down excitedly, almost like they were attempting to detach themselves from the parchment. 

They weren’t all the same breed, either - Oliver spotted a snoring Common Welsh Green, a Norwegian Ridgeback that appeared to be grooming itself, and a viciously spitting Peruvian Vipertooth, among others. 

Gareth grinned at their astonished reactions and softly trailed a finger over the parchment.

“Ahh, I see you enjoy the dragons? This was the most recent birthday gift I received from Charlie Weasley. He’s truly outdone himself with this one.”

“Did he draw those himself?” Sampson asked with awe in her voice. 

Even Morgan, infamous for her unfazed demeanour, watched on with open admiration as the intricate creatures moved across the white background. 

“I do believe so, yes. He’s quite adept when it comes to arts and crafts. You should see some of the fireproof clothing he’s knitted for me over the years.” 

Their captain was leafing through the playbook now, clearly looking for something. 

“Didn’t know you stayed in touch with Charlie,” Oliver commented, trying very hard not to let his jealousy show. Charlie was always busy, and notoriously hard to get a hold of.

“What can I say? You ask a man to join your school band once, you’re stuck with him for life. Though I wouldn’t refer to it as ‘keeping in touch’ per se, more like he sends me an owl every couple months or so to let me know that he hasn’t been eaten or burned to a crisp yet.” 

“I remember that band,” Marcus said slowly, shuddering like he was dealing with an influx of deeply traumatic memories, “ you were absolutely terrible. Pretty sure even Mermish sounds more melodious, and I’m talking above water.” 

“Thank you,” Gareth replied brightly, the criticism entirely lost on him. 

He turned another page, and his eyes lit up.

“Found it! Enough idle chit-chat, time to get to work!” he exclaimed, raising the book up slightly so the rest of them could see. 

The first page was covered in neatly drawn tables filled with barely readable numbers, and the writing on the second page contained a whole bunch of equations Oliver had trouble making sense of.

From the bewildered expressions on his other teammates’ faces, Oliver concluded that he wasn’t the only one confused by Gareth’s cryptic notes. This instilled in him an odd sense of relief.

Roger Davies, however, covered his mouth in shock. “Is this what I think it is?” 

“I used match statistics combined with a mix of Arithmancy and Numerology to try and predict Scotland’s tactics, yes,” Gareth confirmed, obviously glad that someone had seen through his scribbles well enough to be impressed. And judging by the reverence with which Davies inspected the playbook, the Chaser was more than just that.

“Let’s sit and talk strategy, then,” he sat back down on the pitch and invited them to join him with a sweeping gesture, excited like a Niffler in a Gringotts vault, “I’ve been waiting all week for this. It’s my favourite part!”

Their strategy session was different from all previous ones Oliver himself had led or attended - they were sitting on the grass, for one, instead of on chairs in a room with a blackboard. In response to Morgan’s question as to why this was the case, Gareth said that he didn’t like the disconnect between a simple room and the reality of the pitch.

He wasted no time going through focus, tasks, or positions, and instead dove straight into the meaty, multilayered parts that made strategy fun.

His speech grew more and more animated as he laid out hypothetical scenes of a match for them, encouraging every player to describe their approach, then forced them to solve the situation from different angles, to engage with the theory. 

The sheer amount of details and variables he factored into his assessments was nearly overwhelming. Oliver had no idea how Gareth kept track of it all when half the time, he was just using the playbook to underline an argument with expressive gesturing. 

Something he really appreciated was Gareth’s bluntness. At multiple points during the session, he asked players outright whether they understood certain moves or were able to execute specific manoeuvres, noting down in a list what he still needed to teach or elaborate on later. 

They spoke at length about previous Scottish line-ups and how they’d fared against England's past teams. 

Gareth had prepared an entire lecture on players with known weaknesses (which covered just about everything - from a documented penchant for taking risky shots to rumours of a player’s partially limited spatial awareness) and how to potentially exploit them.

Most captains liked to come up with game plans and solid strategies that utilised their team’s strengths, tactics that would go on to become famous and game-defining in their sport - Gareth Vosper was definitely not one of them. 

Rather than “hand-holding” his players with a more or less linear approach, thus limiting their instincts and ability to improvise, he employed a method he himself referred to as “anti-stratting”. 

This method relied on a systematic deconstruction of the opponent’s game plan, a disruption so complete it would force the other team out of their comfort zone, drastically increasing the chance for mistakes. 

“It involves some good, old mental warfare aspects, too,” their captain explained, while six pairs of captivated eyes followed his every move, “after all, what is more intimidating than your opponent anticipating and countering every single play before you even make it?” 

“Wouldn’t you still need a basic strategy for your offence? This all sounds a little too reactionary to me if I’m being honest,” Siobhán stated, no doubt thinking of Wallace’s meticulously planned attack strategies, the pitch diagrams where every single Puddlemere player was assigned a specific area they were to cover. 

“You should have some idea of where you want to direct the flow of the game, sure,” Gareth agreed readily enough, “but make it too stringent, and you’re immediately facing a psychological disadvantage as soon as you’re forced to adjust. I don’t like it when my players fear the absence of structure, I want them to think for themselves, to learn how to use their freedom.”

Silence spread between them as each of the players considered Gareth’s words. 

“The most important thing I want you to take away from this session is that while ‘know your enemy’ is good, solid advice you can build on, you should also know yourself; your strengths and weaknesses; your habits - good or bad; your limits and your potential. And you should know your teammates, too. You will never be out of options if you can think like a team.”

Marcus looked at Oliver, and he knew instantly that they were both thinking back to the exact same moment - the second during that first practice game where it had felt like they were in each other’s heads, thoughts attuned to an identical frequency. 

“Although we won’t have a lot of time to practice tomorrow, with the game starting at eleven a.m., I’m not too worried. Scotland finished their tryouts a week ago, and if we’re assuming that today was their first full practice with the official line-up, the amount of preparation they have should be on a level similar to ours,” he got up and dusted off his robes with a flick of his wand. 

“Additionally, they lack critical information, since they have no idea who’s in our starting line-up. If you keep in mind what I just taught you about their likely strategy and how to counter it, we might even have the advantage.”

The sun had fully set now, and the sky had taken on a vibrant shade of blue, the residual sunlight quickly fading. 

“We’re meeting on the pitch right after breakfast. Don’t forget to change into your new robes. You can start warming up without me, I’ll have to take care of some other captainly duties first,” Gareth announced, the slight smile on his face giving way to something more subdued, almost melancholy. 

Oliver assumed that he was talking about the dismissal of the remaining players.

“Have a good night - and while I know how convenient the enchanted beds are, please don’t go to sleep too late.” 

* * *

Their group split up after that, players wishing each other goodnight and Disapparating.

“So, what did you think?” Marcus asked the moment Oliver’s door fell closed behind them, tone absurdly curious.

“I think,” Oliver began, looking for the right words, “that people are right to call him a tactical mastermind. Vosper _ is _brilliant, no two ways about it. But he’s also eternally stubborn and subversive. Not everyone is going to take to his approach, and he’s aware of that, which is why it must have factored into his decision-making process for the line-up.” 

Marcus’s face turned contemplative.

“What you’re saying is that, if I were an equally good player with a more conservative style and a tendency to rely on static strategies, he might not have picked me? Interesting.”

“He still might have because you’ve got a great game sense and sharp instincts, F- Marcus,” Oliver said, pulling his tank top over his head and throwing it onto the laundry pile, “by the way, did you want to stay here tonight?”

His words startled Marcus into a laugh, and when Oliver turned towards him, he was grinning and shaking his head in disbelief.

“First you compliment me, then ask me to share beds in the same sentence? I have to hand it to you, that was almost smooth. You aren’t exactly the shy type, huh?”

“Can’t say that I am, no,” he replied, yawning, then added his shorts to the same laundry pile, “though I am mostly interested in actual sleep, sorry.” 

Marcus sighed, then pulled at the hem of his t-shirt. “You know what? That’s just fine by me.”

Twenty minutes later found them lying on Oliver’s bed together, trying to find a sleeping arrangement that would be comfortable, as the mattress had not been manufactured with two people in mind - especially not if both of those people were over six feet tall. 

Once they’d finally settled into a position they could both live with, Oliver raised his wand and extinguished the magical lanterns, effectively throwing them into total darkness as it happened to be a moonless night. 

He leaned back into Marcus’s embrace and closed his eyes. It felt really good to share space like this, with Marcus’s naked chest pressed to his back, and his right arm casually draped over Oliver’s hip. 

_ I’m stupidly happy _.

Marcus pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, and mumbled a quiet “Goodnight,” into his skin.

“Yeah, sleep well,” Oliver whispered back and covered Marcus’s hand with one of his own.

* * *

When he awoke, it was to the sight of Marcus Flint curled up next to him under the covers. Oliver must have twisted around in his sleep at some point, which wasn’t really too surprising since he had trouble staying still during the night.

Careful, so as not to disturb his boyfriend’s rest, he untangled himself and climbed out of bed. He rummaged around in his luggage for a while, looking for fresh work-out clothes and a piece of paper he could leave a note on, in case Marcus woke up before he returned from his morning run. 

Oliver slipped on his trainers after he came back from the bathroom and snook out of the room as quietly as possible. 

The hallway was just as empty as it had been the last couple days around this time of the morning, so he was able to do his warm-up stretches uninterrupted.

Apparently, some rain had fallen during the night, as the grass outside the village was wet, and the earth soggy in some places. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the clean smell of the air, and exhaled steadily, paying extra attention so he could maintain an even breathing rhythm. 

Today was going to be exciting, of that he was certain already. But yesterday, yesterday had been special, in so many ways. 

Looking back on the previous day's events, it didn’t feel entirely real. 

To play Keeper for England had been his goal ever since he’s spectated his first-ever professional Quidditch game, since he’d been up there in the stands, clinging to his parents’ hands with sweaty fingers, big brown eyes filled with wonder. 

Now that he’d made it this far, Oliver realised that he could do more, that he _ wanted _ more. Of course, he’d known that the journey wouldn’t suddenly end, just because he’d finally reached his goal. Rationally, he’d been aware that becoming England’s Keeper would mark a beginning rather than an end. 

But to experience it - to sense the growing hunger within him to strive for more, the blazing flames of his ambition that fed off the possible futures open to him now - that was something else. 

Now that he’d made it this far, he wanted them to win it all. And the crazy thing about it was that he knew they had the potential. 

* * *

Marcus was still sleeping when Oliver returned, so he took a quick shower and got dressed. 

As this was the final day of tryouts and he’d be returning home later, he started levitating those belongings he had actually unpacked back into the luggage, directing his dirty laundry with his wand, so he didn’t have to fold it by hand. 

After he’d finished cleaning up a bit, he took a quick look at the position of the sun and determined that he could let Marcus sleep for a while longer, then grabbed the one book he’d brought on a whim, and climbed back onto the bed. 

“_ Pitch Black _” was a novel Percy had gifted him for his birthday last year, a popular Thriller that told the story of a fictional Auror by the name of Gordon Goodman, who started investigating the British and Irish Quidditch League following the disappearance of multiple players under suspicious circumstances.

He thought that the book was decent enough from a plot perspective and the buildup of suspension was exceptionally well-done; however, the author clearly had no idea how strict League regulations actually were and what the average professional Quidditch player’s life looked like, and it constantly ruined Oliver’s immersion. No professional Quidditch team worth its salt would ever allow spectators during practice, that much was sure. 

A good twenty pages in, Marcus started to shift and eventually woke up, squinting his eyes against the early sun rays making their way into the room. 

“What are you reading?” he asked, voice thick with sleep, and Oliver was hit by a sudden rush of warm feelings as he realised just how simple and domestic this moment was. 

“Wow F- Marcus, not even a ‘good morning’? I’m disappointed,” Oliver teased. He rested his book on his lap and used the note he’d written for Marcus to mark the pages. 

“And you still can’t get my name right without messing up, so I think that makes us even.” His lips were twitching with poorly hidden mirth when he said it, so Oliver wasn’t too worried.

“Besides, I would kiss you, but this bed is really cosy, and you’re all the way up there- wait, why in the bloody fuck are you dressed already?”

Oliver laughed at Marcus’s incredulous expression. “I like rising with the sun. Not an attractive habit in a bed partner, I know and I’m sorry.”

“You don’t sound too sorry about it. Though you also didn’t wake me up, so I guess I can forgive you this one vice.” He snatched the book from Oliver’s lap and eyed it critically.

“Don’t really get how you’ve made it halfway through this, the protagonist is a self-righteous wanker if you ask me. Absolutely obnoxious,” he shook his head and handed Oliver the novel back.

“You’ve read it?” Oliver asked, genuinely curious.

“Not sure ‘read’ is the word I’d use, to be honest. Terence Higgs recommended it to me - he’s like, a fan of the author or something? - anyway, I got up to the part where he busts that one team captain for suspected Felix Felicis usage, then I had to give up because I was laughing too hard,” here Marcus stifled a yawn, “it did make for pretty good kindling though, a solid three out of five.”

Oliver bent down to kiss him, completely disregarding Marcus’s morning breath. 

“I don’t think the author has ever spoken to a professional Quidditch player in his life, or he’d know how much we value our private practice sessions,” he mumbled against Marcus’s lips, kissing him again, deeper this time. 

“Speaking of private practice Oliver, I think you should help me with my warm-up,” Marcus commented, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. 

Oliver smirked. “Oh, and you say _ I’m _ the corny one?” 

Still, he let himself be pulled on top of Marcus, and they snogged for a good while, careful not to overexert themselves before he kicked Marcus out so they could make it to breakfast on time. 

* * *

“That’s a very nice hickey, Mr Flint,” was the first thing Siobhán said when they joined the others at their table. 

Marcus shrugged, gently touching the purple bruise over his clavicle, situated right in the middle of a pale stretch of skin his tank top didn’t cover. “I wanted a good luck charm. You know, a little superstition never hurt anybody.” 

As always, he completely and unapologetically owned the whole thing, not appearing uncomfortable in the slightest. If Oliver hadn’t already been in over his head where Marcus was concerned, this would’ve put the final nail in the coffin. 

It wasn’t just Marcus’s self-assured, prideful nature that attracted him, it was also the knowledge that he wanted Oliver enough to be just as confident in his vulnerability when he was lying half-naked in Oliver’s bed.

“I would ask, but I’m not sure I want to know,” Morgan stated, then went back to her bowl of breakfast cereal, flicking her wand to add more milk from the bottle. 

“Well, there isn’t that much to say, really,” Oliver said, voice perfectly calm and serene. He contemplated the different dishes for a while, then settled on a plate filled with roast tomatoes, and added some good old beans on toast. 

“Now you’re underselling it,” Marcus remarked, and Oliver could _ hear _the grin in his voice. “Actually, Oliver asked me to-”

“Nobody wants to hear this, okay? I’m eating over here,” Davies interrupted him, face flushed scarlet, staring down the dripping egg on his fork. 

Sampson snorted into her cup of Darjeeling tea, visibly fighting to keep some of it in her mouth. 

“Are you okay, Davies?” the concern in Siobhán’s voice was only overshadowed by her obvious amusement, “you look a little, hmm, how do I put it...distressed.”

“Sorry, it’s just super weird. I still remember when Wood and Flint were both seventh years. Professor McGonagall was forced to attend every single captain’s meeting because they were constantly at each other’s throats!” he finished his egg, and immediately went back for seconds. 

”You’re like...disrupting my entire world view with this,” Davies added, finally addressing Marcus and Oliver. 

“Davies, you know what _ I _ recall when I think back to that final year at Hogwarts?” Marcus asked, and Oliver wasn’t sure he liked the foreboding edge in that question, “your gigantic crush on Cedric Diggory’s girlfriend.” 

“Merlin’s beard, please stop! You win, just please, don’t mention this again,” Davies mumbled through the hands he was using to hide his embarrassment. 

“Cho Chang, right? She plays Seeker for that French team now, the Quiberon Quafflepunchers? Wonder if she’ll make it to the World Cup. As far as I remember, she used to be pretty good, and Ireland could use a talented Seeker, with Lynch retired and all,” Oliver said, involuntarily prolonging Davies’s misery. 

The Chaser groaned quietly, egg laying forgotten on his plate. 

Between bites of sausage, Marcus sent Oliver a knowing look. “No need to rub it in, after all, it’s considered bad manners to kick a man when he’s down.”

Oliver sputtered. “I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to-”

Marcus held up a finger. “Do not,” and he enunciated each word carefully, “ruin this moment for me.”

* * *

As they stepped onto the pitch in their new, official robes, everyone was smiling and admiring the way the golden lettering on their backs reflected the sunlight. 

Oliver trailed a finger over the emblem on his chest, tracing the intricate design of the three dragons. _ This is it. _

Following Gareth’s instructions from the previous evening, the six players found themselves flying warm-up exercises without supervision as they waited for their captain to arrive.

Sampson raced around the stadium at top speed, weaving between the goalposts on both sides of the pitch and passing the stands at a low altitude while Siobhán stretched her arms and swung her bat to loosen up her muscles.

The three Chasers were passing the Quaffle back and forth across the entire pitch and took turns practising penalties with Oliver guarding the hoops. 

When Gareth joined them, he did so trailed by the seven reserve players who immediately took their places by the sidelines, faces solemn and expectant.

Their captain seemed to be in pretty high spirits despite the fact that he must have come here straight from the dismissal of the seven players who hadn’t made it on either team. 

* * *

They practised for another hour and a half, and Oliver was glad to find the atmosphere was serious and productive - everyone was hungry for a win over their Scottish rivals, practice game or not. 

During the last half hour, Gareth went through the most essential points of their “strategy” again, reiterating the importance of trust in both their own skills and the abilities of their teammates. 

Oliver looked around, taking in the determined faces of his teammates, the undercurrent of tightly leashed excitement in their upright, professional postures, and thought that there was no doubt any of them were ready to do everything in their power to help this team win. 

Marcus’s shoulder brushed his when he stepped forward and addressed the team, grey eyes sparkling with the wild, competitive streak that had earned him Oliver’s respect way before they’d really gotten to know each other. 

“Let’s take these fuckers down!” he shouted, and the team loudly gave their approval.

Gareth looked them over with an expression of ferocious pride on his face.

“I’d give you one of my famous pre-game speeches, alas, I don’t think you need one. I agree with what Flint said, let’s give them a good, old English welcome.” 

* * *

The first guests to arrive at the Old England Stadium were German referee Carola Brandt, appointed to lead this particular match as impartial party by the ICWQC, and famous for her merciless approach to dealing with foul play, and (as Marcus had hoped) Jaswinder Kaur, senior Quidditch Correspondent of the _ Daily Prophet _.

Kaur was a slender, elderly witch with sharp, brown eyes and silver strands in her carefully braided black hair. She had played Keeper for the Wimbourne Wasps in her younger years, and taken part in three Quidditch World Cups herself, as Keeper of the Indian National Quidditch team. 

The Scottish National Quidditch team arrived at ten minutes to eleven o’clock, shortly after the three members of the Scottish Committee, Eoin Macmillan, Pàdraig Holmes, and Sheena Monroe had joined their English counterparts in the stands.

They wore robes in traditional blue and white with silver lettering on the back, and similar to the English robes, their emblem - which showed a rearing Aethonan with spread wings - was stitched onto the chest. 

“Oliver!”

He was watching referee Brandt levitate the ball chest onto the pitch when he suddenly found himself enveloped in a rib-crushing hug and with a mouth-full of brown hair. 

“W- Katie? Hey, it’s good to see you, too!” Oliver eagerly returned the hug of his former Gryffindor teammate and comrade-in-arms. 

Katie Bell let him go and stepped back, looking up at Oliver with a broad smile. Her official robes fit her well, and she wore them with glowing confidence. 

She did a great job playing Chaser for Portree, so her making it onto the Scottish line-up was the most natural conclusion.

“Let me guess, you forgot I would be here,” she said. Katie didn’t look mad, more amused.

“I- yeah. I’m sorry, Katie,” he apologised, feeling horrible about it. He’d sent her an owl after reading about the Scottish line-up in the Prophet, but he’d simply been too fixated on the tryouts and the whole thing with Marcus to remember that she’d be coming to play in the practice game. 

“Oliver Wood blocking out everything else in his life to focus on Quidditch? Colour me surprised.” She laughed, and Marcus snorted, so Oliver did the only sensible thing and elbowed him in the ribs. 

“Hey, you shut up. You’re supposed to be supportive,” Oliver accused, shaking his head in mock-irritation. 

“Oh yeah, that sounds like me. Marcus Flint, emotional support. Besides, Bell is right, and I _ refuse _to enable your obsessive tendencies.”

“Pot, kettle,” Oliver shot back, grinning. 

A weird look crossed Katie’s face, though she didn’t say anything.

“How’s the wife?” It had been a while since he’d seen the two of them, as they were both just as busy with Quidditch as he was. Alicia was a Chaser for the Kestrels where she formed a formidable offence together with Dean Thomas and ex-Hufflepuff Tamsin Applebee.

“Al is fine. Great, actually. She received her nomination letter on Wednesday, and she’s basically talked about nothing else since then. Pretty sure she will have no problems making it onto the Irish line-up unless Aoife Wymond and her Committee mates are literally blind,” she said, then added a quick “sorry, Wymond,” when she noticed Siobhán. 

“Please don’t worry about it. She’s been in my bad books for a long time now, I think our relationship is a lost cause at this point. No need to-”

The shrill sound of a whistle reverberated around the stadium as referee Brandt walked up to the middle of the pitch. Although she wasn’t physically imposing, there was something commanding in her presence when she motioned for the two teams to take up their positions and mount their brooms.

“We’ll catch up later,” Katie promised Oliver, then she hurried over to her Scottish teammates. 

Gareth and the Scottish captain, Heidi Macavoy, were asked to come up to referee Brandt for what appeared to be a couple short and stern instructions before the two shook hands amicably. 

When Gareth returned to his team, he winked and mouthed, “We’ve got this,” then took up his place next to Siobhán.

Everyone’s eyes rested on referee Brandt as she released both Snitch and Bludgers, only the big red Quaffle remained in her hands. She waited a couple seconds, then she catapulted it high up into the air with a surprising amount of strength, and the players were off. 

_ Here we go _.

* * *

**A CHANCE AT REDEMPTION?**

BY J. Kaur

_ Yesterday, England’s National Quidditch team officially revealed their line-up for the upcoming World Cup in a practice game against Scotland. The game marked the end of a week-long tryout process held at the Old England Stadium near Derbyshire. _

_ Witches and wizards of Britain who have followed the Quidditch scene closely over the last couple years do not need to be told that England’s performances on the international stage can effectively be summarised in one word - lacklustre. The team has not been able to secure a top ten placement at a World Championship in half a century. _

_ While some may claim that a 250 - 70 victory over the newly minted Scottish team is no cause for optimism yet, there are seven compelling reasons why fans of the Three Dragons can look forward to repeat performances. _

_ For his second attempt at a World Cup title, captain Gareth Vosper (28, Tutshill Tornados) has surrounded himself with six remarkably talented players. Each of them is a household name at their respective club. Vosper’s prowess as both a Beater and a team captain are undisputed. In a recent survey conducted by the Quaffle Quarterly, a renowned Quidditch journal, 67% of players asked named him as the captain they would most like to train under. His reputation as a strategic mastermind precedes him, and many believe that he has the potential to lead England to a title this time around. _

_ Patricia Sampson (21, Tutshill Tornados) is more than just a rising star - the young Seeker also holds the record for the fastest catch of the current season. Though she has been previously criticised for her unconventional flying style that sacrifices precision for speed, there are not many players in her position that manage to fool opposing teams with Wronski Feints quite so consistently. _

_ According to many of his peers, Roger Davies (23, Ballycastle Bats) is always a force to be reckoned with. His unique execution in front of the hoops has overwhelmed more than one Keeper, and his dead aim makes him one of the least predictable Chasers in the entire British and Irish League. Ballycastle captain Jude Harrington once claimed that ‘No matter how impossible an angle appears to be, when Davies is the one taking the shot you can never count him out.’ _

_ Valmai Morgan (22, Holyhead Harpies) may very well be the most callous player any reporter has ever had the joy of interviewing. Fortunately, this characteristic of hers seems to be a transferable skill - on the pitch, Morgan is known and feared for her fast-paced style and composure alike. No play she makes is wasted, her presence on the pitch a ruthless economy of movement. Many a rival Chaser has been intimidated by her dauntlessness. _

_ When it comes to Marcus Flint (25, Appleby Arrows), most experts agree that he is, without a doubt, the most dependable Chaser the League has seen in years. There is a depth to his game sense that astonishes even the most seasoned of professionals. _

_ Flint has undergone an impressive transformation from a rowdy rookie to an accomplished veteran. “If you want to build a stable offence for your team, Marcus Flint is the player to sign. With a Chaser that versatile, you can make any strategy work,” so English Quidditch Legend Ludovic Bagman. _

_ Where actual titles are concerned, Oliver Wood (25, Puddlemere United) is one step ahead of most Quidditch players his age, as he has both a League and a European Cup win under his belt. His exceptional Keeper stats prove what any Quidditch fan worth their salt is already aware of - Wood deserves a shot at the World Cup. With lightning-fast reflexes and perfect body control, he keeps even the best Chasers on their toes, managing to block Quaffles at an almost demoralising rate. _

_ “Oliver is more than just a Keeper, he has the potential to be the heart and soul of your team if you give him the chance,” said Montrose Chaser Angelina Johnson, who played under Wood when he was captain of the Gryffindor team at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

_ Although both of her parents are famous in Great Britain’s magical community, Siobhán Wymond (26, Puddlemere United), daughter of popular Irish Chaser Aoife Wymond and renowned confectioner Kondwani Wymond, has long since stepped out of her family’s shadow. She is likewise a staple of the successful Puddlemere line-up and has demonstrated time and again why she is considered one of the League’s finest Beaters. Wymond’s play style adds a new dimension to the term ‘accuracy’, it is evident to the trained observer just how much calculation is behind every Bludger she sends flying across the field. “There is no one Beater I would rather have beside me, Wymond is essential to every strategy I devise, she enables offence and defence in equal measure,” said Duncan Wallace, captain of Puddlemere United. _

_ Due to a longstanding agreement with the Department of Magical Games and Sports, the _ Prophet _ is unable to divulge information on the strategy employed during practice matches. However, both teams delivered a solid performance with England coming out slightly ahead. _

_ Players were unavailable for comment, but notoriously elusive English Committee member Selina Tate told the _ Prophet _ that she has an excellent feeling about this team. “We all trust Mr Vosper’s judgement implicitly, and the line-up he has put together is proof that we are right to do so. I have every confidence that England won’t go home empty-handed this time.” _

_ Whether England will be able to compete with the world’s Quidditch elite or not, the team that faced down Scotland on Saturday and came away victorious demonstrated some undeniable team chemistry. _

_ The general public will be able to see this iteration of the English National Quidditch team in action during their first official friendly against Romania in late October. _

_ Qualifiers for the main event in two years are set to start in Australia mid-December, and the first round will last until the end of the winter break between regular League seasons. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title of the chapter taken from the song "Missed Connection" by the Head and the Heart


	5. Epilogue

Three months later, two young wizards were making their way down a forest trail in Eastnor that was so old, one could barely make it out amongst the trees and the thicket. One of them, however, had walked this path so many times that he knew every step by heart, and soon enough they were stepping out onto a wide clearing - which, to any untrained or Muggle observer, would appear completely deserted.

“Are you sure that it’s alright for me to come? We haven’t been dating that long,” Marcus Flint asked, nervously running a hand through his short black hair. 

“It’s fine, Marcus. She wants to meet you, remember? Anyway, stop worrying so much, my mum’s going to love you,” Oliver said, his unfailing optimism visibly calming Marcus’s frazzled nerves. 

He grabbed Marcus by the hand and stepped through the barrier of Protective Charms he’d set up around his family’s property. The scenery immediately changed, and they were looking down the stone path leading deeper into the large garden surrounding the house. 

Marcus stood still for a moment, and Oliver watched him take in their surroundings, clearly impressed. 

Because of the fact that they were well and truly into autumn, the predominant colour had changed from green to warmer shades of red, yellow, and orange. Especially beautiful was a nearby flower bed filled with blooming Celosia, and he bent down to examine the plants, which were another one of Noreen Wood’s favourites. 

“This is so much livelier than Flint Manor. My family preferred to keep our lands green, so there’s always been a lot of ivy and quite a few conifers. Nothing really exciting.”

“Well, I stem from a long line of Herbologists, and my mother shares the Wood’s passion for gardening, so it’s looked like this for as long as I can remember,” Oliver explained, then motioned towards the pair of greenhouses visible in the distance. 

“Over there is where my father raised his magical plants. Most of them are still in the greenhouses, and my grandparents and I take turns looking after them. My mother feels confident enough to take care of the more harmless species, so we replanted the ones that don’t struggle with temperatures and weather conditions as much outside in the back garden.” 

Marcus chuckled. “So what you’re telling me is that your family lives in the woods, takes care of plants, and you like to fly on wooden brooms? Your name is literally a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Yeah, hadn’t heard that one before,” Oliver grumbled good-naturedly, then he pulled Marcus forward. “Come on, I bet mum’s made apple crumble for tea, it’s a household staple. A lot of apple varieties only just came in season, and we’ve got a bunch of old Cox trees my great-great-grandfather planted that carry a lot of fruit every year.”

They walked past a patch of wild-growing goldenrods his mother had likely left alone because she had a fondness for the plant, despite its tendency to spread. 

When they approached the house, Oliver heard voices coming from the back garden. Curiosity piqued, he and Marcus walked past the building and the greenhouses, and as soon as they rounded the corner, Oliver saw two people stand over by the Wiggentree. 

The first one was a tall, thin man in maroon travel robes with short, curly silver hair, holding a wand that he was using to petrify a swarm of Pixies in mid-air before he shrunk them down and levitated the obnoxious creatures into an engorged mason jar. 

Next to him stood a smaller woman in simple jeans and a teal sweatshirt, dark auburn curls tied back in a French braid. She held a bright yellow spray bottle in her glove-clad hands, no doubt filled with a deterrent to ward off any potential escapees. 

Both of them were surrounded by what appeared to be an army of tiny walking sticks, but Oliver knew to be a branch of Bowtruckles. 

Oliver pulled out his own wand and hastened to join them. 

“Mum, grandpa, do you need any help?”

Kenneth and Noreen Wood turned around to welcome him, the movement almost simultaneous. 

“Ollie!” his mother smiled at him warmly, while his grandfather - always the quiet and reserved gentleman - greeted him with a short nod. 

“My dear boy, it’s good to have you here. Come, give me a hand with the Pixie nest, will you?” He directed Oliver’s attention towards the nest, sitting higher up in the crown of the tree.

Immediately understanding what was required of him, Oliver summoned a ladder from the old shed his grandmother had built, and placed it against the tree, careful not to damage it lest he upset the Bowtruckles. 

Marcus came up behind him to secure the ladder, and under his watchful gaze, Oliver climbed up and cautiously severed the nest from the bark with a couple well-aimed charms. He shrank it down to a fraction of its former size, then dropped it into the Pixie jar.

“That should be it, I think,” his grandfather declared as he examined the tree, satisfaction filling every syllable, “another infestation successfully dealt with.”

Noreen was observing the Bowtruckles’ safe return to their home when Oliver walked over to her and pulled his mother into a hug. 

“Thanks for your help, Ollie,” she said, and stepped back to straighten his cerulean robes, “oh, and you must be Marcus!”

His mother removed her new pair of magical gardening gloves (it had been Oliver’s birthday present to her, custom-made and enchanted by one Professor Neville Longbottom), then grasped the hand Marcus had offered her to shake with both of hers.

“Sorry, I was a bit distracted earlier. The name’s Noreen Wood. It’s so nice to finally meet you, my son’s been talking about you quite a bit.”

“Likewise, Mrs Wood,” Marcus replied, and even though he still seemed slightly tense, Oliver could see a hesitant smile hiding in his otherwise serious grey eyes.

After he’d sheathed his wand in his intricately carved blackthorn cane and readjusted his travel robes, Kenneth made his way over to them, giving Marcus a curious once-over. 

“I’m Kenneth Wood, Oliver’s grandfather. I don’t think we’ve met before, but you do look familiar.” 

Marcus raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. Before he got the chance to introduce himself, however, Oliver beat him to it. 

“Grandpa, this is my boyfriend, Marcus Flint. He plays Chaser for the Appleby Arrows and the English National team.” 

Kenneth Wood looked at Marcus again, closer this time and with a contemplative expression on his face. 

“Flint, you said? I knew a Maximus Flint once, he was in my year at Hogwarts - Slytherin, I believe, and friends with that asinine fool Cantankerus Nott. A rather unpleasant fellow, and dreadfully quick to anger.” 

Marcus snorted and shook his head. “That sounds like my grandfather, alright. A choleric bastard right down to his final breath.”

“I see, I see. While I’d like to say that I’m shocked, it couldn’t be further from the truth,” he said with a sober look, meeting Marcus’s eyes. “Well, it matters not. So far, my grandson has demonstrated nothing but sound judgement, which is why I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. You have an air of confidence about you, make sure not to lose it.”

Oliver stared at his grandfather, stunned. This, he had not expected. Indifference, maybe, tacit approval at best, but outright acknowledgement? He felt a kind of tentative happiness bubble up inside of him.

Casting a surreptitious glance at Marcus, Oliver noticed that he appeared a little lost for words, so he touched his arm briefly. When his boyfriend looked up, Oliver gave him an encouraging smile.

They were walking towards the house when Oliver’s mother turned to his grandfather.

“Kenneth, will you be staying for tea?”

“Apologies Noreen, I fear I’m going to have to decline. I promised Odelia I would return to the farm as soon as I’m done checking up on both you and the garden. There is still a lot of harvesting to be done, and Twisting Turnips wait for no man,” he chuckled lowly to himself, then summoned a folded blue handkerchief from one of the many pockets sewn into his travelling robes - a Portkey. 

“Grandpa, I’ve got something for you. I was going to send these by owl, though now that you’re here, I might as well hand them over in person,” and he pulled two silver tickets from the brown leather bag he’d slung over his shoulder. 

“They’re tickets to our first international friendly against Romania at the end of the month. I’d love to count you and grandma among our supporters.”

His grandfather accepted them graciously, and read the inscription that had been printed on the seemingly delicate material. Then, he extended a hand and patted Oliver’s shoulder affectionately. 

“Thank you for these, Oliver. My dear Odelia will be delighted, of course, being the Quidditch fan that she is. We shall be there, you have my word. Now, I’m afraid I have to take my leave.” 

Kenneth inclined his head towards Oliver’s mother and shot her one of his rare smiles. 

“Noreen, it was a pleasure, as always. Let me know if there’s anything Odelia or I can do to be of assistance.” 

He shook Marcus’s hand, then took a couple steps back and closed his right hand around the handkerchief. In a flash, he was gone. 

* * *

Upon entering the living room, they were greeted by a yawning Mr Nettle. The cat jumped from its perch on the table and approached them, meowing as it did so. Mr Nettle sat down directly in front of them and glared up at Marcus balefully. 

Noreen laughed and picked him up. “Guess someone’s a little grumpy because Kenneth wouldn’t allow him to ‘help’ with the Bowtruckles,” she said as she started to pet his cream-coloured fur. “You two can go ahead and sit down, I forgot to set the coffee table, just give me a second.”

“Mum, I could-” 

His mother gave him a meaningful look, eyes glinting with amusement, and he shut up immediately.

“You’re a guest today, Ollie. Besides, I still have to finish up the custard, so you make yourselves comfortable.” 

She left the room to head to the kitchen, and Oliver dropped his bag onto the couch and sighed. 

“Does she not like it when you use magic?” Marcus asked, then cringed at the accusing tone in his own words. 

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Oliver explained patiently, “a lot of the time she considers it ‘cutting corners’, so to speak. Mum doesn’t mind the magic, as long as it’s used in a reasonable way. Also, sometimes I feel like she’s afraid that I’d think of her as old and frail if she were to ask for my help around the house.” 

Marcus seemed to take this in, then he nodded. 

“When you put it like that it makes sense,” he agreed, face scrunched up in thought. 

“I don’t remember the last time I spent a whole day without using any kind of household magic to make my life easier.”

They walked past the wall of the room that was dedicated to photos - both magical and Muggle alike - and Marcus stopped in his tracks to inspect them.

“Your dad was a Ravenclaw, huh? That’s quite the hairstyle.” He pointed at a picture that must have been taken at Aidan Wood’s graduation ceremony. In it, his father was wearing the traditional black robes with the striped blue and bronze tie, and his shoulder-length strawberry blond hair was neatly tied back with a blue ribbon. 

Oliver smiled - a bittersweet thing with sharp edges - as his gaze rested on his father’s solemn expression. 

“Yeah, he was in Ravenclaw, and so were grandma, grandpa, and his father before him. It was a big surprise when I got sorted into Gryffindor. My family wasn’t disappointed per se, they were just...confused, I guess? Anyway, dad used to joke about it being my mother’s fault, because he ‘didn’t have a single foolhardy bone in his body’.” 

Oliver’s eyes wandered to his own graduation photo, and to the one next to it - a photo of his Gryffindor Quidditch team, taken right after they’d finally won the Cup. He traced the frame with his fingers, and they came away slightly dusty. 

“The entirety of my immediate family was in Slytherin,” Marcus commented lightly, placing a hand on Oliver’s back in silent support, “and they wore it like a badge of honour. As for me, I always felt welcome there, my housemates understood the importance of ambition, and they knew a thing or two about loyalty. Some of them, like Higgs and Warrington, I’m still friends with. I never once regretted being a Slytherin, though I did wonder, during the war…” he trailed off, voice a little distant, almost like he was losing himself in a memory.

They had talked about it at length. At the breakfast table, lying in bed in the dead of night when neither of them was able to find sleep, on shopping trips to Diagon Alley. They’d spoken about the war, about fear and anger and loss. 

When things got difficult, the years they had wasted not talking to each other lay between them like a dark, bottomless rift, but reaching out to cross that gap became easier every time. 

Marcus could be too prideful for his own good, and Oliver himself stubborn to a fault, yet they managed to keep communications open somehow. There was something comforting in the mutual knowledge that they were each committed to making this relationship work.

For a few minutes, they simply stood in front of the photos together, leaning into each other. Then Noreen Wood returned, balancing a tray filled with china, cutlery, a teapot, and a bowl filled with custard. In her other hand, she carried a dish filled with her sweet-smelling warm apple crumble. 

Her entrance shattered the weird mood in the living room. 

Oliver exhaled deeply, wordlessly pulled out his wand and levitated the tray to the table at a steady pace. His mother shot him a scathing look, although it didn’t last long when she watched a wide grin spread over her son’s face. 

“You’re being ridiculous, Ollie,” Noreen shook her head and put down the dish, never once breaking eye contact while they took their seats around the coffee table.

“I’m being helpful,” Oliver corrected, grin daring her to contradict him. To his surprise, she instead turned to Marcus, who had apparently decided to sit as close to Oliver as possible.

“Does he act like this around you, too, or is he only doing it to torment his poor mother?”

Startled into a bout of laughter by her refreshingly direct question, Marcus pretended to think about it. 

“Hmm, no. He’s worse, actually,” he replied, grey eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“Stabbed in the back by my own boyfriend,” Oliver lamented, pressing a hand to his chest in mock-affront.

“If you’re not too busy bleeding out, you could start distributing the food, since you want to be helpful and all,” his mother commented as she finished setting the table. 

He grabbed the big spoon she had brought and started to scoop apple crumble onto their plates, then passed around the bowl of custard after he’d helped himself to a generous serving. 

The room grew quiet as the three of them enjoyed their tea, the silence only interrupted by the occasional noise of cutlery on china.

“This is really delicious, Mrs Wood,” Marcus complimented, as he went back for seconds. 

She glowed at the praise. “Thank you, Marcus. Noreen is fine, by the way, but I understand if you’re more comfortable with formality.”

Oliver hid his smile behind his teacup and leaned back into the cosy material of the couch. This afternoon was going a lot better than he’d let himself hope.

* * *

When the table had been cleared, and the dishes returned to the kitchen, his mother offered Oliver the leftover apple crumble, which he graciously accepted.

“I’ve brought something for you, as well,” he said and pulled a third silver ticket from his bag. 

“This was supposed to be another birthday present, but the Department of Magical Games and Sports took their time releasing these. I wouldn’t feel right playing my first official game as England’s Keeper without you in the stands.”

His mother looked at it, then back at him, and finally, she wrapped her hand around the ticket and held it close to her chest. 

“Ollie, this is...thank you. Of course, I’ll come! I just wish-” she bit her lip, looking over at the big family portrait on the wall. 

“Yeah,” Oliver agreed, “me, too.” 

He pulled her into another hug, and she mumbled a hushed, “I’m so proud of you,” into his robes before she let go. 

Wiping an errant tear from her face, she glanced at Marcus who stood a couple steps behind Oliver, looking somewhat awkward. 

“Are your parents going to be at the game?” she asked, and. Fuck. Oliver hadn’t told her. 

“Mum-” he began, but Marcus cut him off, no trace of irritation in his relaxed expression.

“My parents are currently imprisoned in Azkaban,” he explained, voice very calm, waiting to see whether she understood his meaning. She did. 

“Oh, I’m-”

“No need to apologise,” Marcus assured her, “they’ve brought it onto themselves. I have no interest in ever seeing them again, and, as far as the family name is concerned-” here, a grim determination crept into his tone, “I’m ridding myself off it first chance I get.”

Noreen looked up sharply, a small smile stealing onto her features.

“Sounds familiar. My parents kicked me out and disowned me when I was seventeen because they weren’t happy with my career choice. I haven’t spoken to them since, I don’t even know whether they’re still alive. And to be honest? I don’t care anymore.” 

It was a story she’d told Oliver exactly once - when he’d worried about his parents’ support of his wish to become a professional Quidditch player. She’d held her young son in her arms, stroked his hair, and whispered fierce promises into his ear.  _ If that is what you really want to do, I swear that I’ll do anything in my power to help you achieve it _ .

Her voice had been filled with a bitter note of pain then, however, and as she recounted it to Marcus now, it seemed as though none of that was left. 

“I’m planning to sell our old family property,” Marcus admitted hesitantly, and Oliver instantly recognised that this was an idea he’d been struggling with, something that had kept him up at night because the second the words left his mouth, his boyfriend’s posture lost some of its tension. 

“Flint Manor’s got more rooms than I know what to do with and, hey, I figure having some extra money to put away couldn’t hurt. I might even be able to afford something in the same neighbourhood as Diagon Alley.”

“I thought about moving out, too. So much of this place reminds me of Aidan, I can’t take a step in the garden without thinking of him. Sometimes it gets really lonely as well, my Muggle friends aren’t able to visit me for obvious reasons...then Oliver spent a couple of days here before the tryouts, and I realised there’s no way I could abandon this place.”

Oliver looked at his mother in surprise. He’d thought she was mostly set in her decision.

“Mum, are you really sure?”

“Ollie, this is our home. I’ve lived here for the past thirty years, and while it’s not always been easy, I don’t think I want to throw that away over grief.”

She sounded certain when she said it, and Oliver spotted a flash of familiar stubbornness in her hazel eyes when she met his doubtful brown ones. 

“Don’t worry about me, you’ve got Quidditch to think about, remember? Isn’t Puddlemere playing the Chudley Cannons on Wednesday? Kondwani Wymond ensured me that he’d bring some of his famous Cauldron Cakes, so you better win to make all his effort worth it.”

He rolled his eyes at her obvious deflection but decided to humour her. 

“We haven’t lost a game since the season started up again, and Wallace keeps telling us that he’s got the Cannons all figured out. Practice has been productive, so I’m relatively assured we’re going to beat them,” he told her, careful not to give too much information away in front of Marcus. Boyfriend or not, Oliver wasn’t going to divulge any of Puddlemere’s secrets while a player from a rival team was in hearing range.

“‘Relatively’,” Marcus teased, air quotes clearly audible, “is your legendary resolve crumbling? How disappointing, seeing as you haven’t even made captain yet- hey!”

Out of nowhere, Mr Nettle had jumped onto Marcus’s shoulder and began to meow disapprovingly into his ear. 

“Looks like Mr Nettle thinks you’re talking out of your arse, and he’s not the only one,” Oliver chuckled, observing the old tomcat’s attempt to use Marcus as a springboard to get on top of the display case that held the numerous awards his father had received in his field. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that I’ll make captain before you,” came the prompt reply as Marcus gently removed the cat from his shoulder. 

Noreen was watching them fondly from where she was leaning on the back of the armchair. 

“I’m so glad you found someone who makes you this happy, Ollie.” 

Her simple, direct statement caused both men to blush furiously, and she laughed as Oliver attempted to hide his face in his boyfriend’s olive robes. 

* * *

But there was no denying it, Oliver reflected, she was right. 

And as he lay in bed that night, exchanging lazy kisses with Marcus, he found his mind wandering towards his plans for the future, and how much he’d love for Marcus to be a part of every single one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> a few short explanations: 
> 
> \- Oliver’s Patronus is a snow leopard because they live & hunt in areas at altitudes of up to 6000 metres. (and I thought a lion would be too on the nose lol)  
\- In JKR’s “canon” - meaning non-book, non-movie info she revealed on the side, England definitely didn’t win the 2002 Quidditch World Cup. sorry, but I don’t care, in this fic’s “canon”, they absolutely do  
\- Edric Vosper and Keaton Flitney played for England in the Harry Potter: Quidditch World Cup video game, shoutout to the like 2 other people who ever bought and played it lol  
\- “anti-stratting” is a term commonly used in the CSGO esports scene, three cheers for niche interests am I right  
\- I might consider writing more drabbles in this ‘verse as I’ve grown quite attached to the characters and their relationships  
\- speaking of, it’s not explicitly mentioned in the fic but Gareth and Jude are absolutely dating and it’s a disaster lmao  
\- this entire fic was originally written in comic sans ms (it really does help with writer’s block)


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